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Se a ta ttttttntttittie 



= T twenty, Rachel Reed was the prettiest girl in 

’ the county. She was fair, with violet-blue 
eyes and a wealth of golden curls. All the 
b B. other young ladies were frantic with envy. 

She was bright and saucy, too; but, withal, 
modest and unassuming. Yet she was by no 
means spoiled—as many another, with her ad- 
vantages, would have been. She was a close: 
attendant at church, a good housekeeper, and 
was beloved by all, young and old alike. 

Harland Lane and she had been schoolmates 
and fast friends from childhood. They had 
played together; quarreled, and made up; 
tossed hay, in the hayfield, together; gathered 
apples together; shared each other's confidence. 
So when, at last, it was announced that they 
were engaged to be married, nobody was sur- 
prised. In fact, everybody said that it was just 
the nicest thing possible: ‘‘ they had been made 
for each other.” The wedding-day was fixed 
for June the seventeenth. Of course, there was 
the usual gossip, and occasionally a little back- 
biting; for, though Rachel was the prettiest 
girl in the county, Harland was none the less 
admired. Tall and straight, with a handsome 
face, and the only son of a rich man, a good 
many girls envied Rachel her success. 

Old Squire Lane himself made Rachel a pres- 
ent of her wedding-dress. It was a pink silk, 
brought all the way from New York City; and, 
at that time, such a dress was not often seen. 

All Rachel’s friends, for miles round, had a 
look at it; they admired and commented upon 
it; and more than one of the young ladies 
wished, audibly, they were in Rachel’s place. 

Squire Lane had not only given Rachel her 
wedding-dress, but he had presented his son 
with a house and farm, in prospect of his mar- 
riage. The house was just over the river, 
opposite Rachel’s old home; and, when the 

furniture came, it was Harland and she who. 


put down the carpets, hung the pictures and } 
curtains, and set up the things; and they were ? 
as happy and merry, in doing this, as two } 

But alas! there came a cloud over all this sun- ; 
shine. Over what sunshine does it not come, at } 
sometime? The village gossip, Nancy Potts, one | 
day, repeated some remarks which she said 
Harland’s aunt had made about Rachel’s father. } 
Mr. Reed, unfortunately, was too fond of his 
cups; and though, in those days, everyone drank , 
more or less, he often drank more than even public 
opinion, at that time, excused. This was a source } 
of great mortification to Rachel; she was very ' 
Sensitive on the subject. And, when she heard 
what Harland’s aunt had said, she sat down and ; 
wrote to Harland, in the first heat of passion, 
“that his aunt need not fear; no drunkard’s 
daughter ’’—for that was the phrase that had 
‘been used—‘‘ would ever bring disgrace on 
Harland’s relatives, by marrying him.” 

It cost her quite an effort, angry as she was, 
‘to send the letter. Twice she tore up what she 
had written. She rose from her chair; she 
walked up and down the room; she wrung her 
hands; she asked herself, with bitter tears, what 
she should do. But her sense of dignity, as well 
as her insulted pride, left her, as she thought, no 
alternative. If she married Harland, her father’s 
shame would always be 
a thorn in his side: his 
family would continually 
refer to it: in time he 
would yield to their in- 
sinuations. ‘‘ Yes,’’ she 
said, ‘‘even the hardest 
stone—even granite—is 
worn away by the con- 
tinual drop, dropping of 
water: he will cease to 
love me: and oh! where 
then shall I be? Better 
break it off now, before 
it is too late. God help 
me,’ and she pressed 
her hands to her burning 
forehead, ‘‘ there is noth- 
ing else to do.” 

Then she sat down 
again, and wrote a third 
letter; and this one she 
sent. The tears were in 
her eyes all the time, and 

-often they quite over- 
-came her: she had to 
pause continually, and 
> shade her eyes with her 




hands, until the paroxysm was over; but she 
persevered, though every word wrung her heart- 
strings; and, when the letter was written, was 
closed, was dispatched, she flung herself on her 
bed, and wept for half the night. 

In vain, her lover refused to accept this dis- 
missal; in vain, he denied that his aunt could 
ever have made such a remark. Rachel was 
obdurate: and, as the aunt herself did not 
come forward to explain, or even apologize, the 
affair ended in the breaking-off of the engage- 


The new house was shut up; and there it 
stood, with its pretty new furniture, for more 
than a year, Harland and Rachel passing each 
other almost daily, yet not speaking. 

Rachel, all this time, was secretly grieved, and 
even repentant; in fact, most heart-broken. But 





‘she was proud, and Harland was proud also. ; no longer the bright star of every entertainment, 
At the end of a year, to show that he was not} but kept close at home with her parents; and, 
broken - hearted, he married Cora Lee: a good} when Mrs. Reed died, she devoted herself to her 
kind girl, and very pretty. But Harland never } father, whose health now began to fail. It was 
loved her, in any true sense of the word, though ‘ Rachel who kept him from temptation, and who, 
he was always a considerate husband. And so in time, reformed him entirely. Then an aunt 
they lived, though childless, until middle-aged. ; died, and left two little girls; and these mother- 

As for Rachel, she did not marry. She had} less children came to Rachel, to live with her. 
many offers, but she declined them all. Mean-; Long before this, Rachel had got to be a quiet, 
time, her troubles had changed her. She was ‘ sweet-faced woman. But she never swerved from 


the path of duty; she was full of kindness to all; ; diately. Rachel sprang from her bed; for the 
with all Ler sorrows—or, rather, because of them } flames lighted up her chamber, so that, at first, 
—she grew nobler and better every day. Finally, } she thought it was her own dwelling that was 
her father died. His protracted illness had quite ; on fire. The village was soon aroused; boats 
worn her out; and, after the funeral, she broke were procured ;* and everybody hastened to the 
down and was ill for weeks. Meantime, Cora} scene of the conflagration. At first, only one 
Lane had also died, and Harland was a widower. } side of the house was on fire, and willing hands 

He now left his own home, and went to his} quickly brought out the furniture there, placing 
father’s to live, and the house was closed once it on the bank, and afterward carried it across 
more, accordingly. Every time Rachel looked ; to Rachel’s house, over the bridge close by, that 

at it, across the river, she thought of her dead spanned the little stream, as the nearest place 
g } 8p P 

hopes and her early folly. The little girls were} for security. When morning came, the whole 

grown up, and living in a distant town, so that } house was in ashes. 

she was alone at the farm. Only a part of the, It was now that Harland came to Rachel, and 

great house was used, however; the south side, ; asked permission to keep his goods in her house, 

in view of the house which was to have been } until he could remove them to his father’s. This 

hers, was kept shut. was the first time he had spoken to Rachel for 
One night, during a heavy storm, that house} years. Pale and grave, she assented. That 

was struck by lightning, and took fire imme-? afternoon, she was looking at the furniture, 





every article of which she remembered so well, paper wrapper, now yellow with age, the pink 
when she saw that the drawer of one of the! silk bought for her wedding-dress, and still 
bureaus had been broken, in its hasty exit of! unmade. The color faded out of her lips. She 

‘the night before. Glancing in, she beheld, in its , stood silent, lost in regret, pressing her hand to 

her heart, which throb- 
bed with absolute pain. 
Suddenly, there was a 
knock atthe door. She 
went to open it. There 
stood Harland! 

They looked at each 
other for a moment, 
speechless. The years 
had passed lightly over 
both. But neither ap- 
peared, at that moment, 
Has old as they seemed 
even. Perhaps a latent 
hope, unacknowledged 
by either, but lying deep 
down in their hearts, 
had something todo with 
this return of youthful- 
ness—in expression, at 
least. Rachel was the 
first to break the silence. 

With a sudden im- 
pulse, which she could 
not control, she said: 

‘‘T am so sorry.” 

“And I have heen 
sorry, every day, for 
twenty years,”’ said he. 
“‘Rachel,’”’ and now his 
voice trembled, ‘is it— 
is it—too late ?’’ 

A moment after, she 
was in his arms, and he 
was kissing her as he 
never had kissed Cora 
Lee—poor thing. 

That fall, they were 
married, and Rachel 


P|, lin) 

in " 

her Wepp1na-Dress. 

OR ees 



Last eve, together, you and I To-night I sit alone, alone, 
(How fast the hours sped !) And think and dream of thee; 
Knew not the parting-time was nigh My weary heart makes weary moan). 

Till night had almost fled. And life is dead to me. 

wore the pink silk for- 

ae ae ee 

a ee ee a. a ee oe oe Oe ek 




Iv. ’ fool: for mademoiselle stood glowing there above 

HER CONTEMPT. ‘ him, her face ablaze with amazed contempt; and, 

Yer he could not help looking at her admir- | if glances could have killed, Kent surely would 
ingly. How proudly she stood, poised there on } have been swept from the face of the earth for-. 

the edge of the levee, in all her girlish grace. } ever. 
“You shall be obeyed, mademoiselle, cer-} She did not speak; but the gesture, the hand 
tainly,’ he answered. ‘ But, perhaps—”’ \and arm thrown forth, as ordering him to dis- 

He stopped abruptly, and looked toward the } appear from her sight, was simply grand. 
party grouped round Ninette, who had snatched { Somehow, wandering homeward, Kent felt not 
Monsieur Lacour’s hand, and was pouring forth ; unlike a beaten spaniel. wan't 
a stream of bubbling French—very amusing, { The others talked of the gipsies. He too 
probably, since even madame laughed. He had : talked, but his thoughts were following the erect, 
never before been alone with Mademoiselle ‘ graceful, haughty girl, sauntering along before 
Lacour—it was an excellent opportunity to make ‘ under the moss-trails and over the coarse coa-coa, 
the assurance that she need not fear his demands | in whose flushed cheeks and quickly-heaving 
as a suitor. Evidently, the old crone had heard bosom he read signs of inward emotion. Almost, 
talk through the country-side, and had but ‘as the little arched foot stepped upon the grass- 
repeated the gossip of her people, mixed up with clumps, almost this blue-eyed Northman expected 
trashy mysteries; and, quite as evidently, made- ‘ to see sparks rising among the waving blades. 
moiselle had become annoyed, infuriated, by this; ‘At least I have made her angry,” he said,. 
repetition. She should be relieved of this fear. ' with intense satisfaction. ‘She cannot utterly 
She should know that he, at least, did not desire ; despise me.’ 
to have her heart handed over, as a bale of { And, the remainder of the evening, she was’ 
marketable merchandise. ‘ simply superb. 

For him, the future held no lovely home, no | A thick fog-smoke hanging over the outlying 
hearthside delights; no fair woman, ministering { wilderness, the prismed chandeliers of the great 
with hands of heavenly tenderness; no children / hall were lit; and mademoiselle, sauntering up 
nestling, with their soft arms; about his broad ’ and down with the elegant Tournon, was reflected 
shoulders. Rather, he had seen’ years of invalid- ‘in. the old mirrors upon the wall, in seemingly 
ism; beyond these, the lights of heaven, stream- ’ endless vistas. She was radiant. She was a 
ing over an early grave; and so it was with a; beautiful sparkle. Her laugh and her musical 
face and voice softened by the ‘vision of this ‘ French rose tinkling among the glass pendants 
future—it was with a sincere desire to relieve his ‘ beneath the lights; she gleamed and she glistened 
fair partner of all tormenting fears—that the : from the depths of the mirrored walls: wherever 
Northman spoke, impulsively indeed, yet kindly. ; Kent turned, he found the fair blossom-face, and 

‘*Perhaps,”’ he said, after a pause, resum- ‘ the figure in its blossom-robes, mockingly, taunt- 
ing, “perhaps, if I assure mademoiselle it is ingly, smilingly bright, till all the air seemed 
indeed true that I have not the slightest desire ‘ yose-tint, and all the space of the great hall 
of ever troubling her about the estate—nay, ’ glowed with the brilliance of her presence. 
more,’ here Kent felt himself reddening hor-’ The calm, cool, well-poised mind of the North- 
ribly: ‘the old gipsy’s words naturally were; man lost its balance. Vainly he listened to 
offensive—perhaps, if I also assure mademoiselle ‘ madame’s broken English, while she politely 
that the future holds, for a poor invalid like ’ explained a collection of pictures, painted among 
myself, no marriage-joys—perhaps my presence ; the islands of the Gulf coast; vainly he listened 
might then be less unbearable,” and Kent smiled as she recounted the histories of the courtly 
faintly, awkwardly embarrassed, seeing, as the { portraits, lingering long over the dark face ofthe 
words left his lips, that he had made a great handsome son, Pierre; vainly—for & voice—a — 

mistake; calling himself, inwardly, dolt, idiot, ‘ mocking voice—like a powerful magnet, claimed 
Vou. LXXXIX.—29. 


Ieee mannn 

his ear, and stole into his brain—so that, gladly ; 

hailing the first opportunity, he hastened forth ° 
into the mist-laden night-air, and stood among 
the shadows of the pillars. 

“She is intoxicating,’ thought Kent, wiping 
his face, and drawing a deep breath, 

And, while he thought, there rolled forth, like 
a challenge, rich chords of harmony: deep, soft, 
clear, they died away into the gay dashing music } 
of a gipsy dance; and, as the graceful player sat } 
tossing her small hands among the yellowed keys 
of the old instrument, the notes, dropping from 
her slender fingers, seemed the voice and motion 
of a bright spirit, mingling among gipsies on the 
greensward, with all the grace and all the} 
abandon of a sportive child. 

One hour later, silence reigned over Chateau } 
Tacour. Bats flitted about the old dormer- } 
windows; the canebrake rustled with the wind } 
and the midnight revels of croaking frogs; whilé } 
an owl, sitting on the mossy branch of a great } 
‘tree near Kent’s window, hooted his mournful ; 
ery; and, all about, the weird drooping moss- } 
trails sang their tender melancholy sighs. ; 


¥-. ; 

A new day dawned: and the sun, driving} 
away night-shadows, kissed Louisiana, nestling, } 
radiant and laughing, within his golden arms. } 
A brilliant, dashing, beautiful day, the saddening } 
to«ches of the coming late autumn giving deeper 
tints to its loveliness. 

Kent, in the one slight greeting glance 
accorded Mademoiselle Lacour, fancied these 
deeper tints spiritually reflected beneath the; 
sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks of the brill- 
iant Creole. 

Evidently there had been trouble. 

Monsieur talked only to Kent; madame, if 
possible more stately than ever, sat erect in her ° 
gothic-backed chair, smiling her gracious smile ; ; 
while mademoiselle preserved unbroken silence, } 
and presently, seizing her great palmetto hat, 
stepped grandly forth into the sunlight, dis- 
appearing down a vista of orange-trees. 

“Fair without, but stormy within,” thought ; 
Kent, resolutely ignoring further visions of the } 
graceful sunlit figure. ; 

Corporeally, Kent had not felt so strong for ; 
years. Mentally—well, mentally, the calm clear 3 
mind of the Northman had braced itself to meet 3 
and face the difficulties of his position. 3 

After two hours of business-writing, he passed 
forth under the shadow of the oaks, contempla- 
ting and arranging a mode of life for the future. 
Mademoiselle Lacour was a rose set with thorns. 




One could not approach her presence without 
feeling sensibly the prick of the briar; hence, 

she was painful: also, there came from this rose 

a perfume intoxicating; hence, not healthful to 

Northern lungs and Northern minds. For these 

\ reasons, she was to be avoided; and the North- 

man pressed his lips together, with an expression 

of firmness, auguring ill for the golden net- 
> weavings of the guardian Lacours. 

Of the four chambers accorded him by mon- 

} sieur and madame, that on the lower floor would 
; make a fine library. There were only two stair- 
§ cases in the mansion—on the eastern and west- 
; ern sides of the verandas. 

Sometimes Louisiana 
wrapped herself in wintry robes of ice—the 
exposed staircases would be dangerous for an 
invalid. With monsieur’s permission, he would 
have one built from ‘the library below to his 
chamber above. Thus, he might live almost 
entirely withdrawn from the family-circle. 

As, thus musing, Kent passed slowly along, 
unconsciously his steps wandered toward an 
unfrequented portion of the grounds. Here, 
indeed, all seemed a wilderness of gray moss; a 
tangle of green vine and briar; a lair of matted 
grasses and dense undergrowth: these trailing 
off along the banks of a slender bayou, toward 
the yet denser wilderness of the swamp-land. 
Impatiently turning to retrace his way, and 
breaking hastily through the low-hanging 
branches of an oak, he stood, transfixed with 
amazement, looking forth from the shadow, upon 
an oasis of brilliant and beautiful bloom in the 
midst of the darkly-colored jungle. The gaudy 
trumpet-vine, the white-starred Cherokee, the 
crimson-studded cypress, all climbing, and bind- 
ing, and clinging together, had woven, from 
magnolia to orange-tree, from pecan to oleander, 
from crape-myrtle to mimosa, deep walls of 
mystic beauty and mysterious depths, while, 
upon the rich green of the earth, rested banks of 
crimson roses, and, yet above these, gaudy sun- 
flowers, many lifting their heads twenty feet in 
mid-air, and glowing hibiscus nodded merrily, 
rubbing their bright faces joyously together in 
the morning breeze. 

The ground, beneath, was almost dazzling in 
its gaudy coloring. Beyond, golden oranges, 
hung among the shimmering foliage, whispered 
of moonlight; magnolias, tipped with crimson 
cones, swayed back and forth a few late white 
blossoms, like censers of incense; and the sun- 
light, catching the soft glow of the crape-myrtle 
and the rich pink of the oleander-trees, waving 
far aloft their lithe stems, cast over all a flush of 
wondrous tint. 

As Kent’s glance traveled, with keen deligl.:, 

aaa . — PPP PPP PLP PPP IDI es 


wee eee — ~~ rw wre 

about the solu earth, falling, at last, on a? dian skirting the sin of the prvarees wall, and, 
clump of tall banana-leaves; raggedly fluttering ; almost breathless, stood at last above the uncon- 
in the soft air, he started, uttered a smothered } scious girl. As he reached her, the lids, feeling 
exclamation of surprise, and drew yet further } the magnet resting above them, were slowly 
back into the gloom of the shadow. For, beside lifted, and the snake’s eyes looked full into the 
the flaunting leaves, near the wall of tangled ; lovely dark gray orbs below. 

vine, and suspended from mimosa to lb i Her lips whitened. But no cry of terror 
branch, a hammock of gayly.colored cords 3 escaped them. Her cheek blanched. But the 
swayed slightly on the breeze. Within the } graceful figure remained motionless. 

hammock, slept Mademoiselle Lacour. One hand Suddenly, Kent stretched forth his strong 
pillowed the rich cheek; the other held, in its; right hand; seized the head of the poisonous 
light grasp, a cluster of yellow marigolds and { reptile; snatched a dead branch lying near; 
trails of coral-vine, the bright blossoms hanging } thrust the end down the opened mouth of the 
like drops of red blood. infuriated creature; dragged it down, down, 

Kent drew a long breath. ; trailing its slimy length over the hammock- 

He had never imagined anything more beauti- } side; then trampled, and trampled, and trampled 
ful. ; upon the hideous body, till life was extinct. 

Over the sleeping girl, there rested the ex-} Mademoiselle Lacour raised herself; gazed 
quisite flush of pink-hued blooms, while waving first at the snake, as it rested, harmless and dead, 
leaves sprinkled the white dress and the face, stretched among glowing flowers, then at Kent, 
sweet in placid slumber, with twinkling dimples } } then, with a slight moan, fell backward. 
of sunlight. Brilliant butterflies and glistening ; She had fainted. 
hummingbirds fluttered about, from agruniiies: $ The Northman came nearer. 
to flower-cup, against the deep wall; fluttered} She had ordered him never to speak to her; 
over the fair girl, herself the fairest blossom of all: ; never to touch her: but surely, now, he could not 
queen and priestess of this lovely temple—temple } leave her—not thus. 
of color, and bloom, and music, and beauty, and} In an old fountain, near by, where a broken 
love; for, as Kent gazed, he knew that this must} nymph seemed mourning over the departed 
be “the garden of our Lallah”’: every waving} glories of her station, water rising from tle 
branch, every swaying blossom, every bending} spring beneath yet gleamed under a thick 
grass-blade, every singing bird, whispered of her 3 growth of flags and reeds, which rustled above. 
presence. ; Kent ran hither, parted the grasses, dipped his 

True to the resolution of the new law laid; hat into the hidden waters, sprinkled Made- 
down for future guidance, the Northman, his face 3 moiselle Lacour’s white face, moved her hand 
growing stern, was about silently to leave this 3 from beneath the soft cheek, chafed her wrists. 
Eden and its sleeping Eve, when lo! twixt the } She rested before him, like a closed blossom ; 
pink and blue flowers of the morning-glory, and ; the taunting, mocking, beautiful spirit was gone, 
the red and white stars of the cypress, and the } lingering in that weird border-land stretching 
golden-hearted blossoms of the Cherokee, the mysteriously twixt life and death. Perhaps it 
long lithe head of a snake was stretched above { might never return, this beautiful, mocking, 
the unconscious one: fixing, upon the closed ; intoxicating spirit. 
lids of the slumbering girl, its beady, lustreless, The heart of the Northman grew sick. Quick- 
fascinating eyes. ened by fear, he lifted the white unconscious one 

Kent’s face grew white, and his breath came } in his great arms; bore her to the edge of the 
in short gasps, for the reptile was a rattle-} fountain; laid her among the soft shadows; 
snake. sprinkled over her still face the cool waters of 

Would Mademoiselle Lacour awaken ? the spring; and knelt there, anxiously watching 

Kent prayed not—a motion meant probable { for the first symptoms of returning life. 
death. He looked round despairingly : no weapon } A fluttering of the lids; a short faint sigh; 
met his eye. ; and the lustrous eyes, unclosing, gazed dreamily 

Another glance toward the sleeper. j around. She shivered visibly; remained an 

Something must be done, and quickly: for} instant quite still; then slowly drew herself 
the venomous head hung now over the velvct } upward, and sat with the drooping head resting 
face. against the silvered trunk of a magnolia. Ex- 

With a noiseless lithe movement, learned in } quisite in her white languor and her helpless 
seasons of summer-hunt mid Indians, Kent } weakness, the fair face hung there, like a pale 
passed from the shadow, crept quickly and deftly ? flower, among the tall grasses and the gay sprays 


ERS RS a Ee 


of golden-rod, and the stiff green spikes of the 
palmetto standing around. 

But Kent did not move toward her. He had 
risen from his kneeling posture, as the beautiful 
eyes unclosed. He was lingering now beside 
the fountain, one hand resting on the stone 
shoulder of the broken nymph. 

‘Are you better, mademoiselle?’* he asked, at 
last, seeing that a slight color had crept into 
the lips. 

‘‘ Monsieur Kent,”’ the voice was very soft and 

RAR ee — 


cd igs 
$ SHE uncovered her face, and disclosed it, alk 
‘ flushed, disdainful, wrathful. 
He had succeeded. Mademoiselle Lacour was 
; fairly aroused. 
: ‘I do consider that these words are unkind— 
’ cruel—rude.”’ 

‘‘And when, mademoiselle, have your words. 

to me been other than unkind—cruel—rude?’” 

i asked the Northman, calmly folding his arms, 

low—the girl was trembling again, and her gray {and looking down into her dazzling loveliness. 
eyes, lifted one moment, fell beneath the coldness ; ‘I came under your roof a stranger: you have 
of the blue—‘‘ Monsieur Kent, I think—it is ‘not even accorded me the common courtesies of 

true—yes—you have perhaps saved my life.” 
Kent did not reply. 
“And, mais oui—it was done with—with 

bravery. You cannot expect that I say more,’ : 
she added, noting his silence, a touch of haughti- : 

ness creeping into the low voice. 

“T did not expect that you would say as much, 

A faint flush stole into the pale cheeks, and 
she passed her hand, once or twice, over her 

‘Will you have some water? I have found 
here a broken stone cup. It will hold a few 

‘*Non, merci, monsieur.”’ 

‘‘Perhaps an orange will prove refreshing,” : 

reaching his hand to a bunch, hanging, like a 
cluster of sunny balls, above the mourning 

‘Non, I thank you, monsieur, nothing. I feel 

myself in reality better—much better,” and she 3 

lifted her head from its drooping posture. 

‘“*As soon as you are able to walk, we will 
hasten away from your Eden, mademoiselle. The 
mate of the monster I have killed may be 
lurking around.” 

She started slightly. 

“Oh, there is no danger now. 
a good watch,” said Kent, gravely. 

‘‘ Mais— mais —I —monsieur— mais oui—I 
was in the hammock,” and she looked at the 
great Northman, with wide-opened questioning 

“«Yes,”’ returned Kent, quietly, ‘and I took 
you out of the hammock, and brought you here, 
and laid you where I might reach the water of 
this spring.” 

She did not speak; but she buried her face in 
her hands, and sat quite still. 

‘TI suppose,’”’ continued Kent, somewhat sav- 
agely, ‘“‘under the circumstances, I need scarcely 
apologize for disobeying the orders given me 
last ‘evening.’ 

I am keeping 

‘life, much less the hospitality which I had a 
: right to expect—the hospitality which belongs to 
a stranger in a strange land.” 

“‘Ah, Dieu—ah, Dieu—and you say this to me 
—to me,”’ she cried, rising, strong in her anger, 
sand clasping and unclasping her lifted hands. 
: «But see, monsieur: in memory of this day,” 
¢and Kent perceived that she used great control, 
; keeping her voice low and even, ‘‘in memory of 
: this day, I will not say what is in my heart. 
’ I will say only: ‘Sell out to another the share- 
; which you hold in our possessions, and go away.’ 
‘ Monsieur, I beg! You make my life, for me, 
Sone great misery. Go away—leave us.” 

The tones were pleading and sad. 

“See,” she continued: ‘Monsieur Tournon 
$ told me, last. night—yes—that his Uncle Poitrot. 
‘had returned, and had a great anxiety to locate 
‘him on our estate, and was in a great despair 
’ when the discovery was made that you—” 

$ Stop!’ interposed Kent, a nameless pain 
shooting through his strong heart. ‘I cannot 
leave your home. But I promise to trouble 
$ you, mademoiselle, as little as possible with my 
’ disagreeable presence. You are not strong 
$—-sit here on this stone brim: lean against 
$this pedestal, and let me tell you my plans 
$ for—” 

} Mais, I will not sit down—I will not listen. 
§ Vous savez—you know that the sight of your 


§ countenance makes, for me, a sickness about the: 
Sheart. You know—” 

’ Stop!” again interposed Kent, and his words 
}came hard and clear upon the soft air. ‘I am 
’ bound by honor to keep, for five years, the 
’ partnership-contract into which I have entered 
‘with your cousin. Do you understand, made- 
} moiselle ?=by honor.” 

‘“‘Honor? Honor?” she repeated, and the- 
gray eyes and the blue looked full each into the 
soul-depths of the other. ‘What do you know 
of honor ?”’ 

‘“* Everything.” 




OOOO eee eee eee 



The voice of the Northman was deep, grand,; ‘*Whatdoyoumean? A thief?’’ and his words 
almost solemn. } rolled thundering through the drooping boughs ; 

“Ah! here Mademoiselle Lacour’s rich face ;} and, stepping forward, he grasped her arm in 
was wreathed with an expression of unbounded } his strong hand. ‘Speak! or, by heaven—’’ 
contempt. ‘I know. It is said that,in the war; ‘I am not afraid,” said Mademoiselle Lacour, 
and in the love, all is fair, all is honor. Sans ; who, deathly white, nevertheless did not quail 
doute, monsieur takes this for his shield: sans } before the presence of the Northman’s fury. 
«dloute, monsieur hides, behind this, all the deeds ; ‘‘ No—though you are hurting me horribly.”’ 
of the past.” 3 J—I beg your pardon,’’ immediately remov- 

‘“‘All the deeds of the past ?’’ exclaimed Kent. ' ing his grasp; ‘‘ but—but—you anger me beyond 
<‘ Mademoiselle, you try me beyond patience. | forbearance. Of what do you accuse me?”’ 
What do you know of my past, save that I once ‘‘ Monsieur, it is time now—yes, this play of 
<lestroyed, for you, a paltry tree ?’’ a child must cease. You know that you did take 

‘What do I know of your past?’ and again my father’s treasure from this spot. See,” and 
the gray eyes and the blue gazed each into the she pointed to the earth: ‘it was that footstep 
other, angry sparkles flashing from the angry » which betrayed you. Monsieur, among many, 
souls behind. ‘ What do I know of your past? the mark of the wounded foot was known.” 
Bien donc—follow me, monsieur: I will show; One instant, there was silence: the two stand- 
to you what I know of your past.” { ing there, regarding each other very quietly. 

As they reached the spot where the snake: Mademoiselle spoke again. 
rested, stretching its long length amid gay; ‘I was a fool—yes, I know,’ shaking her 
blooms, the girl paused, shuddered, and, turning ; head sadly, ‘to dig again, as I have dug this 
her gaze, all tender and sorrowful, upon her; day; but the words of that gipsy did come 

companion, said sadly: ‘Monsieur, do not let; into my mind, and I thought, perhaps—’ 


us go any further.” ; ‘The gipsy’s words,” said Kent, slowly, as . 

Kent did not speak. He simply lifted his} one awaking from lethargy or wandering in a 
arm, pointed forward, and she obeyed. dream. ‘‘Ah, yes: and this is the humped tree. 

Across the garden, there was dense tangle of { Wait,” and he passed his hand thoughtfully over 
Cherokee, growing in a clump beneath a tall; his forehead: ‘‘ I—I think I remember this tree. 
live-oak. Mademoiselle, turning suddenly behind ; I came here with my men, to mark it. We 
this clump, stood still; and Kent, amazed, stood 3 thought we should have to cut it down, with 
beside her. several others,’ here the Northman glanced right 

At his feet, there yawned quite a deep pit, { and left, ‘‘about this spot. There was the same 
recently dug; and dug, he conjectured, by this open pit dug, just as it is dug now. Strange, 
singular girl, since her great palmetto and stout ;I did not remember before. I remember your 
‘gardening-gloves rested upon the ground, beside $ father, mademoiselle, coming hastily forward 
small spade and shovel and hatchet. Then; from the woods yonder, his hands all stained 
came back to him the words of Cousin Eugene: } with earth. He was a very courteous gentleman, 
«‘She digs deep—deep.”’ and, I remember; he apologized: said he had 

“JT cannot understand,’”’ said the Northman, $ been working over rare plants; he was fond of 
‘with cold calm tone: ‘ I cannot understand what } the woods; he was a student of botany. But 
your gardening, mademoiselle, has to do with my : we did not fell any trees. Next day, our gun- 
honor in the past.” ; boat left, for a station lower on the coast. As 

She was standing, leaning with her hand rest-} for the treasure of which you speak, made- 
ing against a great bulge outgrowing from the; moiselle, I have never seen it,’’ and Kent, all 
rough trunk of the tree, gazing down sadly upon ; the proud honest spirit of his ancestry shining 
the freshly-dug earth; but, as he spoke, she ; forth from his clear face, looked full upon the 
glanced up, and said quickly: ; beautiful accuser before him. 

‘‘All the bloom in my garden grows from your She was trembling now, indeed—the lithe 
dishonor. Monsieur, why do you force me to } graceful body swayed slightly; but she steadied 
speak? Why do you not say: ‘ Forgive—it was { herself—the spirit of the Lacour was very strong 
the fault of the war—it was but the booty’? ; in her brave heart. 

And I will try to forgive: yes, in memory of; <‘*Monsieur,’’ the voice, at first shaken with 
this day—if you go—I will not any more say } emotion, growing stronger, “‘listen: Papa, at 
to myself that you area thief. I will forgive.” ; that time, did make a preparation to join the 

She gazed at him again, tenderly, pleadingly ; } army of Louisiana. To maman he said: ‘I will 
ut Kent was blind with anger. ; not leave thee and the little one without gold.’ 


OPP SO 2 eer — 


OO eeu eee 

One day, he did show to maman, in gold, five She shook her head, speechless in misery. 
thousand dollars. He took this, also he took much Kent, stooping, lifted the spade, the shovel, 
family silver of the Lacour, and he did bury } and the hatchet; stood an instant, looking toward 
them here, beneath this tree. To bonnemaman ; the denser wood ; then, stepping over clumps of 
he did not speak of this—only to maman; for, } palmetto, made his way, through matted under- 
see, his brother Pierre, whom bonnemaman loved, growth, to a low dwarf-pine of the silver swamp- 
spent much; and bonnemaman, being weak } species. He hesitated at first; but, after one or 
for him, papa feared that, if the brother Pierre } two sweeping glances of observation, commenced 
should come poor and beg, bonnemaman would ° cutting through tangles of grass and vine. 
give to him all. So, it was laid here. ‘« Perhaps,” said Kent, pausing and looking up 
““The day your gunboat went from our sight, ‘at mademoiselle, who had followed after him, 
that day papa was found on this spot. He was} ‘‘ perhaps I may be mistaken. But, as a boy, 
paralyzed. He did make much attempt to speak, ‘ much of my time was spent among Indians; my 
but—it' was no use. Maman knew that the} eye bad been well trained; and, when we were 
treasure had been taken, and by you, monsieur— ' marking the trees to be felled, after that meeting 
tenez—écoutez’’—lifting her hand—* for there > with your father, I noted the appearance of this 
was the mark of the foot, and maman did know ’ spot—noted that the earth had been recently 
—it was the shock of the loss which brought to ’ dug, and that efforts had been made to conceal 
papa his death. To bonnemaman, she said; this. Your father probably feared that his 
naught. What use? Bonnemaman would have? treasure was not safe, near tall trees liable at 
felt anger in her heart against papa, since he had $ any moment to be hewn down; hence, I think— 
not placed in her the confidence of ason. Only } mark, mademoiselle: I do not know, but I think 
to me, monsieur, to me, three years after, when 3 —that we shall find the missing treasure near 
she was about to die and to leave me, she said: § here.”’ 
‘Lallah, chére enfant, it was a man of the > 

And then there was silence between them, 
North who did defraud thee and kill thy father.’ 

while Kent, his great arms strong with a sort of 

Then she told, monsieur, what I have told; and ‘cold fury, hurled forth huge clods of dark earth ; 
| and mademoiselle, like a marble statue, stood 

she did draw from me the promise that I would 
not relate to bonnemaman what I have related to § motionless beneath the pine-hboughs. All about 
you: and Pere Ignace, being present, was the : them, birds sang; flocks of wild ducks flew over- 
witness to my promise. Ah, mais, I was but a‘ head; great mysterious white cranes flitted 
petite. I said: ‘Perhaps the gold is hidden,’ ; among dusky shadows; and the low pine waved 
and I dug. I told Eugéne—I told bonnemaman } soft sighs above Northman and Creole. 

—it was for flowers. And, when Eugene would} Three feet had been dug into the depths of the 
make a lament—when Eugéne would say: ‘Ah, } dark earth, when, the spade of the Northman 
Dieu! we are lost: the possession of the Lacour } striking against the sharp edge of a plank, Made- 
must go to the hand of a stranger’—I would } moiselle Lacour bent breathlessly forward, gazing 
come, and I would dig more hard than before. | anxiously into the opening below. 

Monsieur, each foot of this land has been dug by } 
me: and so I say it is here, upon the bed of 
your dishonor, that my flowers grow. Ah, and ! 
when the stranger came under our roof—the 
stranger holding our land—the stranger, who 
had taken the gold which might have saved us— 
the stranger, whose deed of dishonor had killed ; 
the poor father—ah, Dieu!’’ and here Made- } 
moiselle Lacour raised her hands and her eyes 
toward heaven, then allowed them to fall, an | 
expression of keen anguish sweeping over the 
pale features. 

“Do you believe me?’ asked Kent, hoarsely. ¢ 
“Do you believe that I am an honest man ?” 

She lifted her face and her eyes, all shadowed 
with pain, and doubt, and fear, and dismay. 

“TI see, I see: you need proof beyond my ' 
word. I think I can give it. Do you remember ; 
the signs made by your dying father?” 

Gradually a cypress box was uncovered. Kent 
prized it open. 

A quantity of silver, blackened and corroded, 
was disclosed, also several buckskin bags. One 
of these he raised, tore off the fastening, and, at 
the feet of Mademoiselle Lacour, poured forth a 
pile of golden coins. 

“Are you satisfied?’ he asked, looking into 
her face—the proud, cold, disdainful face, now 
all downcast, and flushed, and touched with 
shame, and tender with pitying regret. 

No word came in reply. But, as a little hand 
was timidly extended across the recovered treas- 

‘ure, Kent knew that the rose was shorn of its 

thorns, and, in the gray eyes—beseechingly, 

‘ pleadingly lifted to the blue—the Northman saw 

visions of peace brooding over a home on earth, 
amid palms and orange-bloom. 
[THE END. ] 


BY E. 

“Ron, Katie; put on your sunbonnet and 
pick some flowers, to decorate the rooms for tea. 
We will have a short-cake. Perhaps the captain 
will call in, to sup with us. 
look at your dress. You can dress when you 
come back. What you have on is good enough.” 
And Cousin Matilda absolutely thrust her cousin 
out of the door, into the golden evening. 

“It’s always the way,’ murmured Katie, bit- 
terly. <‘‘Cousin Matilda sends me out of the 
way, whenever Captain Gilespie comes. I like 
to hear him talk, too; he tells such good stories 
of the time he served in the army.” 

No, you needn’t 

And she 3 


months since John Giléspie came home with an 
‘empty sleeve and stopped to pass his life on the 
quiet riverside, thought she. 
‘“Miss Matilda,’ began John, while he fondly 
> caressed his tawny beard, on which the amber 
‘sunlight rested, and half closed his thoughtful 
¢dark eyes, in which a serious light began to 
> dawn, a light long looked for by Miss Matilda, 
‘‘you know me pretty well, by this time.” 
“Yes, John; I think I do.” 
“You are acquainted with the facts of the 
3; case which led to my going into the army ?” 


$ Perfectly well acquainted with them all,” she 

cast a wistful glance backward at the front of } murmured, and she allowed two full tears to 

the house, where John Gilespie’s fine form was 

just looming up between her and the glorious } 

golden sunset. She saw him enter the little 
vine-shrouded porch, and she saw the flutter 
of Cousin Matilda’s lavender dress. Then she 
went resolutely to work, among the shrubberies, 
to gather sprays and flowers. 

Up in the cozy porch, John Gilespie smoked 
away at a fragrant cigar, and chatted lazily to 
Cousin Matilda; but his brown eyes watched the 
movements of a small white shadow across the 
lawn and in the shrubberies in the distance. He 
had been coming over to smoke in this cozy porch 
for several years now; so also had many another 
neighbor gentleman: for Cousin Matilda had a 
genial old father, and a very pleasant manner 

with Squire McCrea. And, as Katie had said, 

she was, for some purpose, sent away when he } 


One time, it was to go to the garret and string 
beans; another, to go to the village, upon a 
worthless errand; and once she was sent to the 
straw-stack, to collect rye-straws for Cousin 
Matilda's future bonnets. 

She had not been home many weeks—for this 
was all the home Katie had—and her life had, 
so far, been spent at boarding-school. She could 

He lived just over the river, in the big ° 
brick house on the hill, and it was quite a habit ° 
of his to ride over, in the afternoon, and smoke } 

‘trickle out on her soft maiden cheek. 
2 ‘You knew Hattie herself?’ he continued, as 
with a great purpose in view. 

‘Yes, and loved her; poor ill-fated darling.’ 

‘You also know that the case must have 
developed in me a heart athirst for vengeance, 
even if involving murder ?”’ 

‘Yes; I think it must have done so in the 
: breast of any noble man.”’ 

‘‘Whenever I cross the river, comes the 
>thought of other years,’”’ he quoted, sadly. 

‘Poor darling—poor dear Haitie,’’ whispered 
Miss Matilda, while she drew her soft lavender 
; draperies closer up to him. 

“Tt is no use to try to forgive, or to pretend 
‘that I have,”’ continued the man. 

«¢ Revenge is Mine,”’ she whispered. 

‘No, I have not forgiven, nor can I hope to 
do so. But I have not the same feeling for the 
>man I once had—oh,+no. You do not believe 
’ that I dream of revenge now ?”’ 
; ‘Certainly not, dear; I know you too well for 
3 that,’ she whispered, tremulously. And he, a 
: little nonplussed at her tenderness, but too deeply 
3 engrossed by his retrospections, went on: 


‘‘Hattie was lovable, in every sense of the 
word. She flirted a little, perhaps; but a truer 
girl never loved an unworthy man than my sister. 
And why she should have loved him—why he 
should have jilted her and wed the silly woman 

not understand why Cousin Matilda wished to}he did—why she should have committed that 

deprive her of the one pleasure offered in her; terrible act—suicide—and why—oh, why !—it 

quiet life; but that lady observed more in Katie’s } should have broken my heart, is an unending 

fresh complexion and gray eyes than was quite } miserable mystery to me.’ 

agreerble to her. And the lony-studied game ‘‘But your heart must not die for the sins of 

should not be lost, after all these delightful { others,’ she breathed. ‘I know it was hard on 



you, dear John; he should hee been more , than } 
murdered: for a man who deliberately wins the } 

love of a woman, and jilts her, is unfit for life in } 

this beautiful world. All the torments that were 

ever made to chastise the unhappy race of Adam } 
should be visited upon him; all the furies of a} 

thousand Nemeses should pursue and persecute.” 

John Gilespie looked now at the strong white- 
faced woman by his side. Her breast was 
heaving, and a delicate odor of heliotrope arose 
from her soft laces. Her two large white hands 
were clasped tightly together, and a hot red 

flush seemed to glow in her eyes and cheeks. 

Something of her own deep thought and purpose 
seemed to come to him. 
the conviction that her last words were meant 
for him. How bitter they were! 

«But pooh!’ he thought ; 
stands me. 
one.’ And so he waded in deeper and deeper. 

‘‘Yes,”’ he remarked, ‘my heart was broken, 
when I went into the army; but, lately, I have 
fancied it could be mended again.” 

«That is right; that is healthy,’’ replied Miss 
Matilda, now in a fever of expectancy ; for time 
was flying, and Katie was coming across the 

green lawn, with her arms full of the sprays and } 

flowers she had gathered. 

«You understand that ’'m quite in earnest?” 

“Of course, John; for you are a gentleman.” 

“And you really can find no objection to the 
connecting of the families ?”’ 

‘‘None whatever, when you are the head on 
your side.’’ 

“Another question, my friend,’ he said, and } 
now his fine face was handsomer than she ever } 
saw it; for the deep feeling on his part intensi- 
fied all the splendid lines of his character. 
«« But, before putting it, let me say that you need 
not mention it yet, to—to anyone. 
. scheme on foot, which I hope to carry out before 
taking decided steps. Now for your opinion.” 
He stopped suddenly, for he also now caught sight 

of Katie running across the grass, one hand full } 

of May flowers, and the other bearing aloft a 
superb spray of blossoms. Then he rallied ond; 
went on, saying: ‘Do you really think—and, | 
for the sake of our long acquaintance, tell me 
truly—do you think my poor heart can find rest 
here ?”’ 

Katie was by this time on the stoop, quite out 
of breath from running. She blushed in her 
shy sweet way, when she found herself observed. 

Miss Matilda turned very white, but replied 
to her guest, quite ignoring Katie: 

“Tam quite sure, John; for I have loved you 
for many, many years.” 

He began to burn with } 

‘she quite under- } 
And then, I'm not going to jilt any- } 

I have a} 


RO em 

Had he proposed to her? 
What had he said, and what 
}did she mean? She, Miss Matilda, three years 
} his senior, and that forty! Oh, what a mountain 
Sof hideous meaning now arose and confronted 
him. He had not meant to talk of Cousin 
} Matilda ; he had not meant a proposal to any- 
;one yet, for he was too poor: his home was 

mortgaged: he had a law-suit on docket, which, 
, if he won, would enable him to marry—Katie! 
} The dependent, hard-working, but beautiful and 
refined little maiden. 

Ah, what had he done so dastardly as to call 
; forth that last loving confession from Miss 
Matilda? And Katie herself had heard it. 
; Why, he remembered with burning shame that 
}he had clasped Katie's hand last night, while 
walking out from the village, whither he had 
overtaken her bringing home, from the mantua- 
} maker, a fine new dress for her relative; he had 
} clasped her tiny brown hand, and called her 
} «his star-eyed flower.” Did she remember it? 
It seemed that she did; for she paused on the 
; stoop, her cheek growing very pale, and those 
}same star-eyes widening painfully. 

} The light words she was wont to utter froze 
on her lips; she forgot all about her shabby 
} dress, which had annoyed her so much; a dress 
}that made her look almost a child; and she 
3 looked from one to the other, dazed. 

Great canal 
He did not know. 

Miss Matilda was the first to regain her true 
3 position. 
; Come, K:tie, you have taken a great while 
} to gather a iew flowers,” she said, sharply. “1 
fear you are growing into idle habits. Young 
girls,” she said, turning to the captain, ‘‘ not fully 
, matured in any sense, least of all in the mentai, 
\ are apt to go dreaming when left for a long whilx 
} alone.” 
‘*Cousin Matilda—” 
Katie got thus far. But her throat was su 
; parched in the effort, the words of indignation 
} for him—and surprise—were too hot; she could 
not speak. 

‘* Run, child, and bring me the cream from the 
spring-house,” interrupted Miss Matilda, majes- 
} tically waving her hands. 

And thus again was she dismissed. He should 
not feast his eyes upon her, not even for a 
moment, decided Cousin Matilda. 

Then, thinking her presence less needed now 
than ever, this fine diplomatist left her lover to 
digest his part of the contract. It had been a 
hard-fought battle, but she felt that victory was 
hers. She went to her room, but only to make 
} another ravishing toilet. 


Gilespie could not keep still; his own thoughts 


were dangerous: they pelted him more painfully { sister’s death by suicide. He had told her all 
than did all the bomb-shells and bullets of that } he remembered of that fatal conversation which 
wild Western way ; he had faced bands of painted ; secured him to Cousin Matilda, and she had 
savages, and come off feeling better than after } accepted her fate. It was down in the boat-house 
this small war of words with Miss Matilda. He ; that they had their final parting; and, although 
did not know what he had said, any more than ; Miss Matilda witnessed it through a hole in the 
he could know where his many hot bullets had } plastering—witnessed the tears of Katie, and her 
fallen in those bloody skirmishes on the plains. | fierce renunciation of him, and, most thrilling of 
He only felt the dizzy din of it all, and realized / all, the one only parting-kiss—she made no 
in dreadful certainty that he was engaged! He; sign. She went steadily on with her prepa- 
got up from the rustic chair in the little porch, rations for the marriage. 
which had seemed so cozy a few moments before ; } Of course, Captain John acted the lover to 
he walked down the pathway, and presently } perfection. He would not jilt this maiden heart. 
found himself in the vicinity of the spring-house. ; For had he not wanted to demolish a man for 
There he was arrested by the sounds of distress } the act? But then, that was followed by such 
which came from the cool mossy nook within. _‘ direful consequences. He sometimes wondered 
Rough soldier that he was, he never could ; if Miss Matilda would drown herself, if he stole 
resist evidence of distress in beast or human; so / Katie out, some night, and ran away with her. 
he entered this place, to discover Katie sitting | But he dare not risk it, for fear of ‘‘all the 
on the damp stone floor, with her head in her furies of a thousand Nemeses.’’ 
lap, weeping bitterly. ’ It only lacked a few days now till the time for 
Without a word, he sat down beside her, and ; his ill-starred marriage. He thought of all kinds 
placed his one arm about her. { of ridiculous sayings—about ‘‘too-ripe fruit,’’ 
‘Oh, you dreadful man!”’ she cried, springing and the like; but nothing made it easier. 
away from him. ‘How dare you? How dare} No one offered help to him in this way: 
you? My cousin’s lover!’ : He even grew desperate, one day, and sent 
«¢ But I’m not your cousin’s lover,’’ he replied. ; word to Miss Matilda that his home was mort- 
‘«Tt’s alla terrible mistake, and I don’t know how ; gaged to its value, and he very much feared he 
it came about.” could not fulfil his promise. He received, by 
‘“‘A mistake, eh?’ cries Katie, scornfully. ; return messenger, an answer, that she was mar- 
*‘A mistake that you love her, perhaps, but not a rying him for love, not money. 
mistake that you told her so, and all the ne! Then, in despair, he proceeded to get ready 
acting—love—for someone else. Oh, it’s ten $ for the sacrifice. It was a sacrifice—for did he 
thousand times meaner than if you really loved } not love Katie with all the intensity of his being, 
her: it’s her money you want, and not she—the all the energy of his soul? 
cross old—”’ ; There came a big storm, and it lasted several 
“Come, Katie; you are ridiculously tardy ; days. The river rose, and driftwood began to go 
this afternoon.” And the soft sweet tomes of } down-stream—stacks of hay and pens of pigs, 
Miss Matilda cut short the tirade of the outraged } big trees and broken boats; an old stable drifted 
little cousin. ‘I shall have to report you to by, with a bleating calf inside; and a log hut, 
father; he will perhaps deliver you a lecture, } with two frightened little darkies on the roof. 
and probably a day in his closet, arranging} Katie sat on the bank of the river, and watched 
papers, for this unseemly conduct to-day.” } the muddy angry waters with much interest. 
Katie, crestfallen and: wretched, wended her } All the rest were busy about the wedding-prepa- 
way to the house; while Miss Matilda, ignoring $ rations. No man was near, and she could not do 


the fact that she had overheard all the conver- } much to assist the helpless ones on the stream ; 
sation, took the gentleman’s arm, and slowly ' but she saw with satisfaction that the hut lodged 
sauntered back to the house, through the honey- against the tiny island near the middle of the 
suckle-arbor and the boxwood walk, up to the? river, and about opposite to where she now sat. 
front-porch again; and he took his leave of her} Then there was a large tree, on which was 
there. ; perched a puppy. He also lodged on the island, 

In a little while, it became fully advertised } and Katie told herself she would go over in the 
throughout the riverside that Captain John : boat, as soon as the water fell a little, and rescue 
Gilespie and Miss Matilda were to be married. the children and pup. But the fates had better 
There was no help for it. He had talked it all { work for her, and sooner. While she watched so 
over, with Katie, and had told her the barrier } calmly, there appeared, on the foamy surface, an 
which he thought existed between them—bhis } object which looked like a large horse. 


512 A WISH. 

Katie kept her eyes on it for some time. It} Katie steered toward the island in the middle 
struggled, and dashed high the frothy spray. ; of the river, and was soon below the struggling 
Suddenly Katie sprang to her feet, and ran along ‘ plunging horse. 
the bank till opposite the animal. ; But the river was full of dangers. A great log 

“It is! It is!” she cried. ‘It is Black 3 came rolling and tumbling down, and threatened 
Duke, and his rider is clinging to his mane.$to upset her boat. Katie had seen the log 
Oh, what shall I do? It is Captain Gilespie, and, } advancing, and, dropping into the bottom of her 
with his one arm, he cannot swim !”’ craft, held tight to its sides till after the shock. 

She did not wait long to wring her hands and ; The boat now soon struck the island; there Katie 
weep. There was work for the brown hands, § secured it, and, going to the edge of the water, 
and she prayed audibly that she might succeed. ; stood ready with a rope to throw to the captain. 
Running to the house, she accosted Miss Matilda. { The horse was almost exhausted, and his rider 

“Oh, Cousin Matilda, Captain Gilespie is in likewise. 
the river. Black Duke is being washed down, Katie stood waiting, with a world of hope in 
and his rider is helplessly clinging to him. Oh, } her heart, and a world of despair in her mind 
where are the men? Will no one come to him?” } should she fail. But she did not fail. Black 

Cousin Matilda, ever cool and collected, walked } Duke saw the island, and, as all noble creatures 
calmly out of the house and down to the boat-;} can, he summoned up all his strength for a final 
house. Katie began at once to loosen the chain } effort; and, rearing and plunging forward, he 
of the little skiff. } made for the land. Katie was ready with her 

‘What are you doing that for?’ said Cousin trope: she had secured it to a tree; and two 
Matilda. ‘‘You are not mad enough to think } small children, belonging to a poor family that 
we can save him? We should both be lost, if; lived on the island, assisted in pulling it in. 
we attempted it.” For Captain Gilespie, on seeing the rope and 

‘But Lam going to attempt it,’ cried Katie, ; assistance so near, released his hold on the horse, 
with flashing eyes: ‘even if I attempt it alone. {and was drawn to the sands by Katie and her 
Oh, Cousin Matilda, think better of it: he is to? friends. The horse, relieved of his burden, swam 
be your husband, you know.” } to the welcome earth, in safety. 

The ingrained selfishness of the woman, how-3 Cousin Matilda had not even waited to see the 
ever, was not to be overcome. She shrugged ; fate of Katie; but, turning away, with her last 
her shoulders. ‘‘Are you a fool?’’ she said. | words, had walked calmly back tothe house. But 
‘Come: I am going back to the house—’ even she, with all her selfishness, could keep cool 

‘Never, never,” interrupted. Katie, passion-; and collected no longer, when she saw Captain 
ately, as she sprang into the boat. ‘I will save Gilespie and Katie coming up to the house; for she 
him, or die in the effort.” And, with a vigorous knew, from his manner, as he bowed to her dis- 

push, she sent the light craft out into the whirl-° tantly, that he despised her for her cowardice, 
ing river. and that it was Katie who was to be the bride. 

And she was right. ‘The river brought a har- 
rier between us,” he had said, as he clasped Katie 
with his arm, on the island, ‘‘and the river has 
removed that barrier, before it was too late. You 
have saved my life, darling. I saw your cousin’s 
behavior. In future, she can be nothing to me.” 

Katie, though young, was brave, and was 
strong for one of her years. She had, from 
childhood, been accustomed to the management 
of a boat. She shot down the stream like a leaf; 
much faster, indeed, than Black Duke, who was 
trying his best to swim to shore. Seeing this, 

wee eee - 

Tur lights from the chipel-windows ; And ever and ever their voices, 
Are shining, bright and clear, Through the lull of the storm, I hear; 
% Throngh the gathering storm and darkness And the solemn tones of the organ 
Cf the night so wild and drear. Fall on my list’ning ear. 
And those self-same lights are shining Oh, could but the light of heaven, 
Oui the gray-haired pastor there, The light of peace divine, 
And the kneeling group before him, Thus also pierce the shadows . 
That have met for praise and prayer. r Of this troubled heart of mine! 

nm a a @& a2 A A A ee 

oe « *s 2 

of 42a co me 

ao © rest 64 

a wt 

ao 42 @& -_= © 



I nap been South, during the winter, and was $ me with that revolver proved still quicker, 1 should 
unexpectedly called back to New York: much to } undoubtedly be shot. What ought I to do? 
my annoyance, for I had meant to have a few} Suddenly, the words I had heard my mother 
weeks’ longer holiday. } speak in my dream came back—no, that’s not 

My wife was in Europe, and we had shut up } correct: they sounded so clearly in my ear, that. 
the house; but I took a fancy to sleep there, ; I seemed to hear her say them again : 
instead of stopping ata hotel. I breakfasted and ‘« Be perfectly composed—perfectly composed !’’ 
dined at my club. 3 Now the safe contained seven hundred dollars, 

It was the fourth night after my arrival. I had} which I had that day placed there, when I 
gone to bed late, and I fell asleep almost imme- ; removed a box filled with unregistered Govern- 
diately, tired out by.a long day of absorbing and } ment bonds to a very large amount. 
wearisome business. Suddenly, I woke froma} ‘Be composed!’ I repeated to myself, feeling 
vague troubled dream, in which some mysterious § as quiet as I do at this moment, and echoing my 
danger menaced me, coming nearer and nearer, } mother’s words. So I kept quiet. 
though what it was I could not tell—which of; The masked man stopped a few feet away from 
course added to my distress—and, in the midst } the bed, covered me with his revolver, and, after 
of it, I heard the voice of my dead mother say ; a scrutinizing glance, turned so that I could only 
softly several times: ; See his profile, as if watching his companions 

‘« Be perfectly composed—perfectly composed.’’ } with one eye and me with the other. 

I could not see her, but the tones sounded so It seemed to me, to put it mildly, that I lay 
clear and distinct that they were still ringing in there about a year and a quarter; but I don’t 
my ears when I woke. Wide-awake I was, on { suppose it was more than twenty minutes. I 
the instant, after my usual habit, and aware too } heard a low exclamation—caught the click of the 
of some slight noise. safe-lock—and saw the fellow who had opened it. 

So I lay still for some instants, without open- ? eagerly searching the interior. 
ing my eyes. But the noise, which had momen- Presently, he held up the bundle of bank- 
tarily ceased, began again, and it sounded so} notes, fastened by a rubber band; then he drew 
close at hand that I concluded I might as well ; out a tin box, resembling the one in which | had 
try to discover its cause. 3 kept the bonds; but it only contained some deeds 

My bed stood in an alcove, and the curtains ; and other papers of no great consequence. He 
were partly drawn before it. As I looked out, I 3 looked at the box; saw that it had a Yale lock, 
perceived that the gas, which I always kept } and put it under his arm; thrust the notes into 
lighted during the night, though turned very i his pocket, and said cheerfully—he had a par- 
low, was burning with sufficient force to make } ticularly pleasant voice, too: 
every object plainly visible. ; Here we are. Come on, boys—the little job’s 

I stared at the light; then my gaze wandered \ very neatly done.” 
on, and 1 saw three men stooping over a fire-} The man near my bed hastened toward the 
proof safe in a niche at the further end of the} door; the second confederate followed. As the 
chamber. ‘Then I heard one of the men say, in } fellow at the safe rose from his knees, his mask 
a half-whisper : } slipped off. I saw his face distinctly. Its every 

“T'll have it presently—dash the thing! } feature photographed itself so clearly on my mind, 
You, Steve, what are you doing here? Goand} that, the next morning, I amused myself by 
watch him, you blooming idiot!’ sketching the countenance from memory; and a 

The fellow he addressed turned a crape-masked very handsome one it was; and one not to be 

face in my direction, and moved softly across the } mistaken again, when once you had seen it. 

carpet, holding a revolver pointed full at me.} I waited for some moments, and then I got 
By stretching out my arm.’ I could touch the; out of bed and went to examine the safe: my 
electric-bell. If I succeeded in doing this quickly ; friend had done his work in a masterly manner. 
enough, its sharp peal would alarm the burglars, I looked into the hall; it was dark, and I 
as well as arouse Carl; but, if the man part could hear no sound; my visitors wel —~ 


— ae anc nna rrr 


safe off the premises, and it was useless — me } sania reason he had for paren my presence. 
to disturb my mind about them. I turned the He wanted me to meet a young Southerner who 
gas full on, shut the safe, and sat down to smoke } was spending the autumn in the town, and had 
and think. made himself a general favorite. 

At first, I fell to wondering over the oddity} Edison’s wife and daughter had formed Mr. 
of my dream, and, though not given to super-} Devereux’s acquaintance, during the summer, 
stition, I believe I had a superstitious feeling in Sat some Eastern watering-place; and the real 
regard to it, which has never wholly left me. I{ truth was, he had followed them to Chicago, 
feel that it was a warning for me to lie still. ’ having fallen wildly in love with my pretty 

The pecuniary loss was, of course, too mere } favorite—Miss Amy—and being in return viewed 
a trifle to dwell on. By the way, I must tell you } with a consideration she had never shown any 
that the notes were for a hundred dollars each. $ previous suitor: though, between her mental 
And, later, I found in my pocket an envelope } and personal charms, and her reputation as an 
with their different numbers jotted down on it, so } heiress, she had had admirers by the score. 
that it would be easy to identify them. : The lover had everything in his favor: he had 

As a beginning for the morning, Carl, my man- ; proved the respectability of his family; possessed 
servant, roused me to give the information that ample means; was handsome, clever, and well 
the house had been entered, by the back base- ; educated. In short, Mr. Edison could urge 
ment, though nothing was missing: indeed, there { nothing against the match—for matters had gone 
could not well be, as the plate and other movable } so far between the young couple, that Amy had 
valuables were lodged at my banker’s. ; permitted the gentleman to try his chances with 

Carl was as much humiliated as if he had } her father—except the shortness of the acquaint- 
been in fault, though he made it plain that } ance. 
he considered I was as much to blame, for; ‘Time will soon remedy that,” I said, “if it 
having stopped in the house in what he called ; really is your only objection.”’ 

a helter-skelter fashion. I consoled him, and} ‘I have no other that is reasonable,’ he 
excused myself as well as I could, asking him } answered; ‘in fact, I have no other, of any 
to say nothing about the occurrence to anybody. } kind. Personally, I like the fellow; yet, some- 
I believe he thought I was ashamed; and I am; how, when I am away from his influence, I 
not sure I wasn’t, though on different grounds; shrink from the idea of consenting to an 
from those he probably assigned. I made no 3 engagement.”’ : 

disclosures whatever, even to him; partly, be-3 “You say his record is clear. He seems 
cause 1 had no wish to have the burglary make ; straightforward, kind-hearted, and the rest,’’ said 
an excuse for the newspapers, from Maine to $I, meditatively, and then added, with the im- 
Georgia, to write paragraphs about me and mine, : pertinent frankness which our intimacy rendered 
dragging in every possible event which never} permissible: ‘‘Then I'll tell you what seems to 
happened to any of us, and elaborating skilfully } me to lie at the bottom of your hesitation.” 

a general biography so utterly without founda-{ ‘I wish you would,” said Edison; “for I vow 
tion that its ingenuity would beat that of a first-{ I don’t know.” 

class novelist. ; Why, you're a little jealous; a man usually 

One person only I did communicate with— § is, when the real prince comes along, and his 
@ man whose silence and efficiency I could trust } ewe-lamb shows a willingness to be carried off,’’ 
—the head of a detective-agency, through whose } said I, laughing. 
efforts it was just possible the stolen notes might } ‘There is something in that,’ he answered, 
sometime be traced, though I had not much idea ; gravely. ‘Maybe it is true, too; though I cer- 
that they ever would. $ tainly was not conscious of any such feeling.” 

The spring and summer passed, and my friend, 3 ‘*Since there are no other objections, and you 
the detective, never got any clue to the stolen} even like him personally, it must be because 
money, and was not likely to, after the lapse of | you hate to face the giving-up of our little 
so much time. $ fairy. I don’t wonder at it; but you'll have 

Late in the ensuing autumn, I was obliged to to resign yourself, and her too; so do it with a 

go to Chicago, for a week or so. The day of my } good grace.” 

arrival, my old friend Mr. Edison, the well-; ‘I suppose I must,’”’ he said, evidently still 

known banker, called on me, and insisted on } pondering over my words. ‘Well, if I am 

my dining at his house the next evening. Pm about it, he must be patient: I won’t 
During our confidential chat—we had known leper any declared engagement yet awhile.’’ 

each other ever since we were boys—he gave a} ‘‘That will answer,’ I said; ‘‘and Amy is 

not the sort of girl to be in a hurry to publish { my room! Gregory Devereux was the man who 
her little secrets.” $ had opened the safe: that handsome intellectual 

‘‘T want very much to have your opinion of face was the one from which I had seen the crape 
the young fellow; but I know you'll like him. 3 drop, as he was preparing to escape! 
So, come to-morrow night with your thinking-; The surprise actually stunned me, for a little ; 
cap on,”’ rejoined Edison, as we shook hands. : I could hear my hostess talking, bowed mechani- 
“You are right to insist on time,” I said; {cally in answer—luckily, she never gave one 
‘you can’t be too prudent. Remember, I say { time for much else—and stared in bewilderment 
that, even if Amy talks me over to her side, as; at the young villain, who was chatting gayly, 
I know she will.” quite unconscious of my scrutiny. The sound of 
‘‘Oh, Amy is always reasonable. You see, the ; little Amy’s low rippling laugh brought me toa 
chap has got my wife as his backer. You know ; full realization of the horrible truth. 
what she is when her heart’s set on anything: ; It was useless to try to think that any chance 
the best woman in the world, but not too much } resemblance had deceived me; no two men could 
discretion.” ‘ look so much alike; I could not cheat myself 
She was a wearing woman, to my mind; but ; with any such hope. Gregory Devereux was my 
of course I did not say that: and he was suffi- : midnight burglar. 
ciently attached to her, to bear with her quiet: I dropped my eyes on my plate, and concen- 
obstinacy and headstrong determination more : trated my thoughts on what Mrs. Edison was 
patiently than I could have done. saying, just to steady my head a bit; and, as ill- 
Well, I went to dinner, the next night— ; luck would have it, she began to speak of the 
arriving a little late, as I had been detained by ; man himself. 
business which could not be put off. There were | “IT hope you like him,” she said, in a low 
some twelve guests, several of whom I knew; and, ; tone. 
after being greeted by my hosts, I was exchanging ‘‘He seems agreeable; he is certainly hand- 
salutations with my acquaintances, when I caught § some,” I answered, thinking how she would hate 
sight of a gentleman whose face was so familiar ; me forever for being the means of unmasking the 
that I wondered where and when I had seen it. { rascal. Thankful as she would be over her 
He was a tall elegant young fellow, with very ‘daughter's escape, with that peculiar wrong- 
dark eyes and hair and a peculiarly winning { headedness of hers she would always blame me. 
smile, as I had presently a chance to notice; for{ ‘I depend a great deal on you. Mr. Edison 
Mr. Edison brought him up and introduced us. ‘ told me he had spoken to you, and he puts such 
It was Gregory Devereux, little Amy’s lover. ‘ reliance on your opinion that I hope your judg- 
The man was’ charming; he made himself} ment will be favorable. I don’t see how anybody 
especially agreeable to me, talking remarkably ; could have any other, unless out of pure perverse- 
well, and possessing a manner which was at once } ness,” she added, perhaps as a little warning. 
assured and deferential. I took Mrs. Edison in} ‘I agree with your husband in his caution,” 
to dinner, and he sat where I could look full at ; I said; ‘a matter like this is too serious to be 
him; every now and then, while listening to my : hurried. Better a girl should suffer a little from 
hostess, or taking'a part in the general conversa- * romance spoiled, than endure a lifetime of 
tion, I found my eyes wandering that way. In ’ wretchedness from any lack of prudence on the 
any case, I should have studied his appearance : part of her elders.” 
with interest, on account of what Edison had; ‘I think,” retorted she, testily, “that nobody 
confided to me: but what attracted me now was will accuse me of being careless, where my child 




the puzzling familiarity of his face. ‘is concerned. I may have my faults, but I flatter 

Pretty dainty little Amy was looking prettier { myself that is not among them.” 
and daintier than ever; she was rather silent, I saw that even a word of counsel would be 
and scarcely allowed herself to glance toward ‘ about as wise to offer as to carry a lighted match 
Devereux ; but, knowing what I did, 1 could read $ into a powder-magazine; so I said several com- 
her secret and her new happiness in every look ’ plimentary things in my rough way, and hastened 
and smile. ‘ to change the subject. 

My glance strayed, from her, back to the; I. was glad to make fatigue an excuse for 
young man; and suddenly, as he looked up at leaving early. I was glad, too, when Edison 
me, I recovered the recollection which had ; regretted that he could not see me the next day, 
hitherto eluded my efforts. ¢as he was obliged to go to Elgin. I knew tho 

My memory presented a rapid picture of the { revelation ought to be made at once, but I shrank 
night when I awakened and saw the burglars in { from my part. 

~— eee . . Sa 



ON eens 

Before I went to bed, I telegraphed Carl to His certainty gave me a terrible shock, after 
send me a book of pencil-sketches he would find ; all; for I thought of poor little Amy. 
in a drawer of my writing-table: it had Dev- ‘It’s an odd thing,’’ continued Mr. Reach, in 
ereux’s likeness among them, and the fidelity of ; answer to my questions, ‘‘that the police here 
the portrait would be a proof to Edison that I? have only found him out quite lately; they'd 

was making no mistake in identity. ; nothing to arrest him on. If it wasn’t for your 
The more I reflected, the more painful the ; charge, he could walk off scot-free.”’ 
whole thing became; my selfish shrinking from ‘But they’re sure?” 

a disagreeable duty was lost in the thought of; ‘As you are. The chief: recognized him as 
the trouble it must bring into my friend’s house- ; ? soon as he clapped eyes on him; was in Denver, 
hold. I knew that Amy would suffer terribly ; : ; once, when he was arrested. By the way, he 
neither pride nor self-respect could hinder that. i served two years, and got pardoned by some 
Of course, time would help her to put so { hocus-pocus.’ 

unworthy a creature out of both heart and mind;; He related a series of adventures which were 
but she must go through a hard struggle first: { remarkable in a man so young; but it seemed 
that clinging affectionate nature could not have } that Hanlon—this was his real name—had been 
its love killed at a blow, as might have been the? at the business from early boyhood, though little 
case with some women, under the revelation of § known East. 

such perfidy. Mr. Reach and I had a long conversation. For 

I gave business as my excuse for not calling, ; certain reasons, he did not wish yet to arrest the 
the next day, on Mrs. Edison. I knew the; young man; we must wait several days; and, in 
subject she would talk about, and, worse still, I; the meantime, I must go through the ordeal of 
dreaded some confidence from Amy, who had } meeting him and behaving in a friendly manner ; 
always been in the habit of treating me with the } : worst of all, could not even give a hint to Mr. 
freedom she would a near relative. I received a ¢ Edison. 
visit, though, from Mr. Gregory Devereux him-{ «Of course, the fellow has stayed here on the 
self. There were a couple of gentlemen with * girl’s account,” Reach said; ‘and, Chief Powers 
me when he called, and very agreeable he was, having been absent till the other day, nobody 
producing a most favorable impression on my ; recognized him. He has plenty of money; he 
friends. ‘made a splendid haul, last spring—robbed a 

Really, in spite of what I knew, I liked him } bank in Sacramento. He slipped clean out of 
better than ever; and, I declare, I found myself; the business, too; three of his confederates were 
contemplating the idea of telling him so, and } jugged, but not one split on him.” 
giving him an opportunity to get quietly away. The next three days were hard on me. 
But of course I could not yield to any such } Luckily, I could find excuse for not seeing much 
weakness; my duty was plain: to expose the} of the Edisons; but it seemed to me that I met 
rascal, and help rid society-at-large of him— 3 Devereux at every turn, and he would be excess- 
at least, for some years; but I never had a more 3 ively amiable—even calling several times at my 
painful task. ; rooms. 

The next evening, I received the book, carefully ; My patience nearly gave out once, and my pru- 
wrapped up and sealed. I laid it away, without , dence too. He actually had the audacity to say: 
opening the envelope. ;  * Your face seemed familiar to me, Mr. Pearsall, 

As luck would have it, on the following morn- ; the first time we met; it made me feel as if you 
ing I met in the street the New York detective } were not a stranger; and 1 had so much wanted 
whom I had consulted—he-was in Chicago on{ you to like me; you know what a powerful 
professional business, and would remain for! reason I have for desiring your good opinion.” 
several days. I restrained myself, returning some civilly- 

Under the promise of secrecy, I told him the} ; Vague answer ; and, just then, we were inter- 
rest of my story, and he agreed to find out} > rupted—of which I was glad enough. He had 
everything he could without delay. When I} not been gone long, when I had a visit from 
reached my rooms, late that evening, he was } Reach, looking so triumphant that I knew the 
there waiting for me; and he had a good deal } necessity for delay was over. 
to tell. im He’s bagged himself neatly,’’ Reach said. 

‘It’s all clear,” he said. ‘I've tracked the? ‘‘ What do you say to this?” 
fellow:: he’s the head and front of as clever; He pulled out of his pocket a hundred-dollar 
@ gang as can be found between here and San } bill, showed me the number, then produced the 
Francisco.’”’ ‘list I had given him of the stolen notes, and 

~~ eh. a 

Se = ~—C—r:téi‘ ™ 



pointed to the corresponding figures. ‘‘He got 1 had been turning the leaves of the book, till 
that changed this morning—I was shadowing ; I came to the portrait I wanted. Mr. Edison 
him; saw him go into Rexford’s, and watched ;; leaned forward and looked over my. shoulder. 
aud here’s the bill.’’ ‘* Devereux!” he exclaimed. 
‘It seems very extraordinary that he should The young man rose. I moved the volume so 
have kept it so long,”’ I said, after we had talked ; that he could examine the sketch. 
awhile. {6s Why, I can see the likeness myself,’’ he said, 
‘«« Not a bit—he hadn’t needed it; and the job wonderingly. ‘‘Who is my double, Mr. Pear- 
was done so many months since, that nothing } sall?’’ 
could seem safer. It’s only that luck was against; ‘There are several names to choose from,” 
him—you and I happened to cross his track. } said 1; ‘‘ but I made the sketch the morning after 
He’s good for ten years, if those fellows I have} I first met you.” 

sent for come up from Denver; and I think they} ‘‘At Mr. Edison’s house?”’ 
will. Anyhow, your business will give him; “No, sir: in my house in New York, at two 
honest employment for five.” ; o'clock at night, on the fifth of last February,” 

There was no help for it; I must act, painful ; said I, slowly. 
as it was to be the instrument of destroying poor; He did not start; not a muscle quivered, 
Amy’s illusions. We arranged our plan before } though his color blanched a little, as he glanced 
Reach left: me, and I went to bed with a heavy } from me to Edison and back. 
heart; and, the next morning, I sent for Mr. } “Do you mean you dreamed that?’ he asked, 
Edison, and told. him the whole story. } trying to laugh, though by this time Edison’s 
You can fancy his horror and indignation, his } countenance must have shown him there was 
dread of his daughter's suffering, and his thank- trouble ahead; but Reach had warned me that. 
fulness in having been circumspect, and making} he had nerves of steel. ‘I suppose there is 
his wife so; as yet, even their intimate friends ; some joke, but I don’t understand.”’ 
only guessed at the state of affairs between the; ‘I thought it a poor joke when I saw your 
young people. ; confederate’s pistol pointed at my head,” said I. 
I told Edison that I had written to Devereux, ; ‘What does this mean, sir?’’ he cried, spring- 
asking him to call at eleven, which he had prom- 6 ing to his feet, his face livid now—but, I felt 
ised to do, and urged my friend to receive him ; certain, more from rage at the failure of his plan, 
as nearly as usual as his self-control could; which had seemed so near a successful ending, 
manage. than fear of the consequences which discovery 
Presently, Mr. Devereux appeared, elegant and ; must bring. 
handsome as ever, and I saw, by the light in his } “It means,” said I, ‘that, on the night I 
eyes, that he jumped at once to the conclusion that ; mention, I saw you and two other men in my 
he had been sent for to hear some good news. ; bed-room. You robbed the safe: your mask 
“This is an unexpected pleasure—the meeting } fell off, and I had a good look at you. There’s 
you,” he said, warmly grasping Edison’s hand, } the evidence,’’ and I pointed to the sketch. 
after saluting me. ‘ And, after all, Mr. Devereux—or Hanlon, or 
Edison answered briefly, picked up a news- ‘ whatever your real name may be—you did not 
paper, and pretended to read; but I could see it } get the bonds.”’ 
tremble in his fingers: he was only using’ the} He stood staring at me, open-mouthed; his 
journal as a screen to hide his agitation, and his eyes took a strange expression, as if a sudden film 
distress rendered me indignant enough to want ; obscured their brightness; he repeated, half 
to make short work with the scamp. } aloud—unconsciously, I think : 
I opened a drawer and took out the parcel, cut { ‘‘ Did not get the bonds?” , 
the string, and produced the sketch-book. “Only your share of a paltry seven hundred 
‘*You were speaking, yesterday, about my dollars; and this bill, which you changed yester- 
face looking familiar to you, the first night we } day, makes the chain of my evidence complete,”’ 
met at Mr. Edison’s house,’ I said, abruptly. ; said I, holding up the bank-note as I spoke. 
‘‘T had the same impression in regard to you.” He drew himself to his full height. The fire 
‘*How odd!’’ he rejoined, with his pleasant; flashed into his eyes again, as they passed me 

Inugh. ‘I suppose, believers in magnetism } and rested on Edison. 
would call that a premonition.” “I don’t know whether this man is drunk or 
“No,” I said, quietly; ‘‘we had met before. 

mad,” he cried; ‘but even for your sake, Mr. 
I have remembered where and when it was. ' Edison, I can’t bear anything more.’’ 

Who is this, Edison ?”’ My old friend was absolutely speechless with 

nnn wen 



mn ree 

Leen mene 

wrath at the fellow’s audacity; but I confess I 
rather admired his pluck. 

‘‘What a pity a man like you should be what 
you are!’’ I exclaimed, involuntarily. 

“Your age. protects you!’’ he cried, with a 
fierce gesture of his clenched hand. ‘If I chal- 
lenged you, it would do no good; but, if there’s 
justice in the land—” 

«There is, and you’re going to get it at last, 
my boy,’’ interrupted Mr. Reach, appearing from 
the inner room. ‘Come, come, old chap, put 
down your fist—the game’s up: we’ve got you 
safe and sound, this time. You're the smartest 
cracksman in America. I’m proud, Jack Hanlon, 
to be the man to arrest you.”’ 

The criminal did not stir. He stood staring 
from one to the other in silence, his face white 
and drawn as that of a corpse. Only the black 
eyes looked alive: the effect was as if they were 
blazing at us from a parchment mask. 

Just then, there came a knock at my door. 

“Tll see who it is,’ Reach said, and hurried 
forward to open it. 

There stood Powers, the chief of the police, 
whom Reach had introduced to me the day before. 

‘‘We've got him,” he said, rapidly; ‘‘ he was 
going off by the express, so I nabbed him. It 
was the only way. Here he is, for Mr. Pearsall 
to identify.” 

In another instant, a couple of policemen 
entered the room, and between’ them walked— 
well, my first stupid thought was, how did they 
get Devereux, when, a moment before, I had seen 
him among us? 



{ But there he stood, by the table; and, near 
} the door, stood his double: and we all—officers, 
} Edison, and I—stared, first at one, then at the 
other, in dumb astonishment. 
> Powers was the quickest to recover himself. 
He moved toward Devereux; pushed the hair 
back from his forehead, and gave a rapid glance ; 
then was before the newcomer, performing the 
same action, which showed a long scar close 
under the roots of the dark locks. 
‘¢ Well, this beats me!’’ he exclaimed. ‘ Mr. 
‘ Devereux, if my friend Jack hadn’t that mark, 
; I'll be jiggered if I could tell which from t’ other, 
; even now!” 

Hanlon gave a low laugh, and said, with a 
mocking bow to us all: 

‘*Mr. Devereux, I’ve been taken for you half 
a dozen times, these three days I’ve been here. 
I’d seen you in Mobile, and used to dress for you 
—much obliged for the use you’ve been. Come, 
Powers, don’t keep me waiting all day. Pray 
excuse my intrusion, Mr. Pearsall—this time it 
was unintentional.” 

Well, he got five years in the penitentiary, and 
luckily died before he served his time out. 
Gregory Devereux forgave me freely. He could 
‘ afford to, for Edison consented to give him Amy. 
They were married within a twelvemonth, and 
‘I was at the wedding. So was Gregory’s uncle 
‘ from Louisiana, whom I found I had known very 
‘ well for a long time. 

‘ So that’s all the story. Ends differently from 
‘ what you expected, perhaps: well, glad enough 
; I am that it does. 



"Twas sunset on that Southern shore; 

They watched the tints of waves and skies; 
A dreamy light was o’er the land 

And in their eyes. 

Oh, but her face was fair as day, 
Although the peasant’s-garb she wore: 
Once seen and loved, to be forgot, 
Ah, nevermore ! 

For all the sweetness of life’s May, 
Its early dreams and purer ties, 
Seemed kindred with the plaintive charm 
Of those blue eyes. 

He gazed upon the sinking sun, 
And then upon her glowing grace, 
Ah, morn shall bring the sun again, 
But not that face, 

For he must leave this lotus-land, 
This quiet love that filled his heart. 



Alas! fate ranks some genial souls 
So far apart. 

Yet neither knew a purer joy 

Than future years would ever bring 
Was dying with the dying light, 

That eve in spring. 

An artist, in a distant land, 

Keeps treasured from the vulgar gaze 
Some sketches of a girl he knew 

In other days. 

And, far away, across the seas, 
A peasant’s wife, with dreamy eyes, 
E’en with her first-born on her breast, 
Grows sad and sighs. 

Forlorn as Psyche, exiled far, 
And wandering in weary ways, 

She pines in secret for the love 
Of other days, 



A suurry summer afternoon. Professor Don: something new: Japan to the right and left 
is lazily stretched in a steamer-chair, on the‘ of us; over our heads and under our feet; 
veranda, fanning himself slowly with a palm-leaf / Mikado music, Mikado colors, ‘ad nauseam.’ 
fan, highly decorated in Mikado colors. The } Even my laundress congratulated herself aud me 
effect is hot and glaring, and offends him. He} on my white underwear. ‘For, indeed, sir,’ she 
turns the other side, in the vain hope of finding ) said, ‘them Micky Dough collars and things is 

relief; but the dyes are even deeper, fiercer— | 
if possible, more torrid and flaming. He utters } 
a feeble ejaculation of despair, casts the thing | 
from him, rises, and sighs. 

‘“‘What’s the matter?” asks a voice beside him. ; 

His manner changes, as by magic. Turning 
quickly, he sees a dainty little lady, plump and 
fair. ‘She is dressed in vivid hues; her gown } 
is picturesque and becoming, and not too ex- ; 
traordinary for such a remote country-town as { 
Wayback; but the colors are the colors of the 
fan, repeated over and over again; and the ; 
lady’s hair is twisted up in the tightest of? 
Japanese knots, and stuck through and through 
with all manuer of things that creep and fly. 
For there is a Japanese fever at Wayback. Life } 
has become unendurable there, without very high } 
hair, Mikado dresses, uncanny beasts and birds, 
long-necked vases, and all the rest of it. The} 
whole town presents the appearance of a chronic } 
carnival. Indeed, when Mr. Don first arrived, ; 
and saw the variegated groups and altogether ; 
impossible combinations wending hither and } 
thither, he almost disgraced himself by inquiring 
anxiously: ‘“ Have I come to Bedlam?” 

He has been here for three weeks, and yet 
has not grown used to it. A little of Japan— 
say, about tea-time—is delightful. A vase, dis- 
posed in their own true fashion—that is, one ; 
only in one apartment—is in excellent taste, and 
very pleasant to the eye. A jar or two, and a 
proper, judicious, cultivated arrangement of} 
Japanese color, has the commendation of the 
whole artistic world. But the Wayback girls 
don't know how to do it, because they persist in 
everdoing it. The eye has no rest, no relief, 
from the violent hues and bizarre outlines. It 
all has the effect of an uneonscious burlesque ; 
and though, at first, it is funny, it soon grows 

Professor Harry Don is deadly tired of it; : 
so he looks with keen distaste at Miss Nina | 
Loring’s headgear, while he replies mournfully : 

‘What is the matter? Why, I am aching for ; 
Vou. LXXXTX.—30. 

drefful to do up.’ Yes; I want something new, 
as badly as did Count Raymond of Toulouse, ° 
when he cried: 
“*Oh, dear! what will become of us? 
Oh, dear! what shall we do? 
We shall die of blue-devils, if some of us 
Can’t hit on something that’s new!’” 
Miss Loring laughs merrily. ‘I have heard,” 
she replies, ‘‘ that the only way to get people out 
of one set of ideas is to get them into another, 

‘just as they tie a string around the ear of a 

balky horse to make him go: the pain in his 
ear makes him forget his resolution to stand 

} immovable, and, before he sees the snare, he trots 
, off briskly in the required direction.” 

‘‘But what ideas are left? There’s nething 
new under the sun,’ says Don, refusing to be 
comforted, And again he quotes: 

“*Still sighs the world for something new— 
For something new: 
Imploring me, imploring you, 
Some will-o’-the-wisp to help pursue, 
Ah! hapless world, what will it do? 
Imploring me, imploring you, 
For something new!’” 

Miss Loring laughs again at his doleful tone. 

“Your laundress has given me the iden,” she 
says. ‘‘Let’s have a clothes-pin party.” 

‘©A what?” 

“The string is around your ear,” she cries, in 

great amusement; ‘‘ you are already trotting out 
of your blues.”’ 

“T am waiting breathlessly. Go on,’ he 

“The first thing to do is to buy a lot ef 
clothes-pins—” . 

‘* How do you buy them? 
quart, or the yard? 

‘Decidedly by the yard, if in any of those 
ways; but 1 think the dozen is most usual. 
Next, we decorate them.” 

“ Horrible! Tam relapsing into suicidal gloom, 
Need we decorate them? Don’t let's.” 

‘Yes, yes;,we must. We paint anything we 


By the pound, the 
The laundry yard, .of 



PIPPI were 



like on them—a flower, a sentiment, a verse;; “Very true; I ought to be grateful.” 

or, if we get tired of that, we can paste on “And I hadn't finished. I was going on to 
& scrap-book picture. ‘Then we tie a pretty } say that we might request the ladies to come as 
narrow ribbon bow on the top, being careful to } lavenders, in white or very pale dresses: washer- 
have two alike,” } women a-la-Boucher, you know.” 

Mr. Don pretends to stop his ears; but looks } ‘But pray add: ‘Please omit pattens and 
up to inquire, with sudden interest; ‘Are we; wooden shoes,’ if we are going to dance. Let’s 
going to.decorate the clothes-rope too, and a few} go and buy the clothes-pius; 1 am longing to 
tubs ?"’ begin.”’ 

‘Certainly. I hadn’t got tothat yet. Nothing ‘First, we must get Mrs. Brown’s permission 
will be easier.’’ to have the affair; and the other guests ought 

“*Gild them?” also to be consulted.” 

*t By no means. Wind the ropes around with} ‘To this, of course, Mr. Don consents; and, 
ribbons—or stay: that would cost too much. } these formalities over, they go to the country- 
Double-yarn would do. Paint the tubs in gor-} store and electrify the clerk by buying several 
geous colors.” ; dozen clothes-pins, many yards of clothes-line, 

«Please don’t,’’ he murmurs, faintly. ribbons, and yarn. It is not to be wondered at 

«¢ Well, then, in cool tints.” that the report soon spreads that pretty Nina 

He brightens up. ‘Yes, cool tints. Delightful! ; Loring is going to marry that lazy conceited city- 
Et puis—” fellow ; for does not John Johnson, the clerk, say 

«Et puis, we turn them upside-down, and use } that they are buying their furniture already? 
them for tables. The ropes are wound in and } As soon as the invitations are sent, however, 
out of the trees, amid the branches, and make ; the vehemence of the talk subsides. Only, it is 
a nice rustic festoon. We shall play games, talk, { so delightful to the busybodies that they cannot 
have music, dancing—‘Sir Roger’ out on the ; drop it altogether; and Nina soon hears enough 
lawn—”’ 3to make her grow a little shy of Harry Don: 

“The Sir Roger de Coverley dance, you mean,” } who is, of course, the last person to become 
interrupted the professor. ‘‘ Why can’t you call} aware of the current report. 
it, at once, by the name it has been known by,} He is no longer bored and lazy, but exerts 
in America, for nearly two hundred years: the $ himself to help Miss Loring, in the most unselfish 
Virginia reel? I thought you, at least, were } and laudable fashion. His clothes-pins are gems 
above these new-fangled names.” sof delicate fancy in fern and flower: jeux 

<1 beg your pardon,” replied the lady. «Old- } d’esprit, poetic sentiment, apt quotations, seem 
fashioned, if you please, for ‘Sir Roger’ was the } to flow from the end of his brush; and, as Nina 
original name of the dance. The Virginia reel 3 knots on the pretty duplicate colors, more than 
is, 1 admit, the same, only very litile altered. ; once she finds herself wondering which of these 
But, to come back to what I was saying: At } will fall to her share,and whether—yes, I will 
tea-time, two gentlemen advance with a huge 3 say it—whether he has meant this or that idea 
clothes-basket, in which are snowy napkins, each } for her, whether he has hoped she would happen 
fastened in its folds by a clothes-pin. These are } te choose this color or that. 
given to the ladies. A large decorated water-; The day arrives: is clear, fresh, and calm. 
pail also appears on the arm of a pretty girl, in The affair goes off charmingly ; and the lawn, 
which are the duplicated colors and corresponding } with its unique adornments tastefully disposed, 
sontiments. These are distributed hap-hazard } presents a very happy picture. ‘Sir Roger” 
among the men. Th? color determines each lady’s} has been danced and danced again, and the 
escsrt to the feast, which meanwhile has been} ladies, in idealized costumes of French “ blarch- 
spread. ‘The clothes-pin napkin-holders are kept } isseuses’’ or English lavenders, have footed it 
@5 souvenirs,” $ merrily with their companion swains. 

“Too much on the plan of the old ‘apron and} The big clothes-basket and the decorated 
mecktie’ parties,’’ grumbles Mr. Don. ‘It isn’t} waterpail duly appear with the snowy napkins 
mew, after all.” ;and the odd holders, and the fun runs high. 

Diiss Loring loses patience. ‘‘ Why, whai do Unly poor Nina looks less gay than is her wont, 
you expect? ‘Something can’t be made out of} for she has been, unmercifully teased about the 
mothing.’ Doesn't your philosophy teach you} young professor, who has himself at last. dis- 
that’ It has a foundation on fact, as it were, I ; covered the general ‘‘on dit,’ and, is not so 
admit; but the mise-en-scdne at least is new, you} unhappy about it as one might suppose. He 
must agree. Absolute novelty is impossible.” | | watches anxiously to see which color Nina will 





get. He has had his turn, and his colors are 
lavender and green. No! Yes! She takes up 

the corresponding knot, then, glancing swiftly ; 

from under her long lashes, she perceives what 
she has done, and tries furtively, but earnestly, 
to effect an exchange with a pretty neighbor, who 
has drawn a pink-decked pin. ‘This the pretty 

neighbor, satisfied with her own luck, emphati- ‘ 

cally refuses to do, and Nina is forced to “ dree 
her weird,”’ 
the quotation traced on the two sides of the 
wooden pin: 
“ Lavender’s blue, oh! my darling; 
Rosemary's green, 
If I were king, oh! my darling, 

You should be queen |” 

Which by no means tends to lessen her embar- 

Mr. Don takes it all very quietly, until, the 
repast over, the various couples stray about the 
gardens and shrubbery, perhaps—who knows ?— 
to compare the sentiments on their souvenirs. 
Then Miss Loring finds berself drawn by a will 
stronger than her own to a pretty mossy bower, 
where they can see the rose and golden clouds of 
the setting sun, 

“Why did you try to avoid me?’’ he queries, 

‘¢] didn’t,” she answers, unblushingly. 

«But I saw you,” he persists. ‘I saw you 
try to get Miss Morris to change pins with you.” 

“Well, then, I did,’’ she admits, with the 
blush that ought to have gone with her former 

“And why ?” 

“« Because—” 

«That may be reason enough for you, but not 
for me. And I feel hurt—very much hurt, Miss 

She gives him a keen searching look, and sees 
that he means it; and, grieved to have wounded 
him, she answers kindly : 



To cover ber confusion, she reads } 

en ee 



» ‘I’m sorry. Please forgive me. It was only 

{ because—”” 

‘*You said that before,’ 
$ patiently. 

} Because people are suying things.” 
“Who cares? Do you?” 

“ Not—much—if you don’t.” 

; 1? My dearest Nina, 1 am delighted! 
; only hope it may come true.’’ 

Miss Loring takes no notice of this bold 

‘Do you like what is written on your napkin- 
holder?”’ he asks. 

“Yes; that is—I mean—they are all nice. Let 
me see yours. I did not see these two before.” 

‘“No; I kept them out on purpose, feeling sure 
you.would choose the colors you had not tied. 
Here is mine. A sort of answer to yours: both 
slightly altered from a nursery-song in one of 
Miss Montgomery’s stories.” 

She takes it and reads: 

“ How do you know, oh! my lover? 
Tell me, how do you know? 
*Twas mine own heart, oh! my darling, 
That told me so!” 

Does she like that? he asks again, and in the 
end she admits that she does like it; and what 
Professor Don wished might come true does come 

‘ The Japanese craze is not ended at Wayback, 
{ but merely interrupted for a space, by the clothes- 
{pin party. Professor Don, however, bears it 
bravely now. His adoration for his charming 
fiancée is so intense that he would permit her to 
wear dozens of butterflies, fans, beasts, and bugs 
run through her hair; he would believe in her, 
even though she appeared in all colors, celestial 

and terrestrial, at one and the same time. But, 
‘ as she is lovely, she is merciful, and does not put 
him to so hard a test. She bestows the “‘ Micky 
; Dough”’ costume, with all its accessories, upon 
} the laundress who invented the term. 

] ’ 

he interrupts, im- 









Tripprne through the grassy meadows, 
Tramping over 
Daisies white 
And the clover, 
Lightly comes she, like a shadow— 
Jennie Knight. 

Quick her step, and light as feathers; 
Oh, the fun from 
Jennie Knight! 

Like the run which 
Laughs the same through stormy weather, 
Day and night. 

Happy maiden, modest maiden, 
Dear to me aye— 
Jennie Knight, 
I would be, nay, 
Never, with the sorrow-laden 
Jennie Knight. 




A succEssFuL coon-hunt was, to Juba, what: loitering along the pike toward old Israel’s. 
winning the Derby, “the blue ribbon of the} cabin; feeling not altogether comfortable, how- 
turf,” is toan English peer of sporting procliv- { ever, in case Aunt Hannah should discover the 
ities. ' proposed night-tramp. 

‘‘What cull’ed pusson,”’ our hero said to his } ‘«Her’ll make me look bof’ ways at onct, an’ 
chum, Billy Sykes, «dat ever clumb er ’simmon- | see billions ov stars ter boot, ef she gits de scent 
tree, and ketched a coon, but kep’ his skin to o dat coon in her nostrums,’”’ he cogitated. 

brag "bout? 
mistis from Bosting hes sot up for style in dis 
settlement, Aunt Hanner’s been sayin’ ez how 
*twere low-lived to go possum-huntin’. Now, if 
I could jes’ get on de blin’ side ov Daddy Isrul, 
mebbe he mought sorter ’suade Aunt Hanner ter 
giv in. But her’s monsrous stubborn on some 
subjec’s, Aunt Hanner is; an’ Uncle Isrul don’t 
keer ter crowd her, when she squar’s herself. 
Man, sirs! he knows rightly dat she mought 
sqush ’im, ef she’d er min’ ter. It’s on’y dis 
new school-mistis: she’s put Aunt Hanner into 

de notion dat we’s one ov de fust famblies ov ; 

Vaginny—F. F. V.’s. Miss Bingley sez, sez 
she: ‘Mrs. Beasle, yer hev de true high cheek- 
bone and coppery color dat er shore sign dat yer 
hev in yer veins de blood ov Pokyhontis.’ And, 
sence dat, Aunt Hanner’s wuss dan eber, an’ 
she say ’tain’t ’rustycatic fur ter coon an’ 
possum hunt.” 

‘« Jes’ so, too, Missus Sprouts sez ter her Ned,”’ 
answered Billy, with a grin; ‘but, bless gra- 
cious, we ain’t er mindin’ dat. Him an’ me’s 
gwine coon-huntin’, come fust change ov de 

Juba’s face cleared. ‘‘Dat’s de time,’’ he 
said, ‘dat Aunt Hanner’s gwine ter hev her big 
soap-bilin’—an’ her soap-bilin’s takes her ’ten- 
tion might’ly. Uncle Isrul, he do de stirrin’ an’ 
liftin’, too, so bof’.on em’s ap’ fur ter go ter bed 
monsrous airly an’ monsrous sleepy.” 

The boys winked at each other and laughed. 

“Tll pile on de fires, an’ keep de soap bilin’ 
lively, so’s ter keep ’em busy,” said Juba. 

‘An’ yer bes’ be makin’ frien’s wi’ dat new 
sharp-nose coon-dorg yer Uncle Isrul got from 
de minner’ mines. Tarlton Scott say he could 
smell er coon er possum ef dey’d swim ’crost de 

Ro’noke River, fornent de Allegheny Springs— } 

an’ thet’s er stretch, now, ain't. it?” 
‘Me an’ de dorg’ll be on han’ intime. Golly! 
we's bof’ sp’ilin’ fur dat scrimmage wi’ er coon.” 

Their plans mapped out, the lads parted, Juba 

But, ever sence dis new school- | 

“‘Gunny muggles! dough, but yon’ner goes dat 
‘ School-mistis into our house, dis minnit. Dat’s 
‘ de end ov coon-hunts, shore’s dis chile’s born.”’ 
; Juba would brave dodged the visitor, had the 
‘ fates favored him; but, as luck would have it, 
era Israel, coming out of the cabin at that 
‘moment, caught sight of him skulking behind 
‘the privet-bushes. Seeing Juba, a bright idea 
| eabieisill to the patriarch. It was to find out 
‘what knowledge “dat boy Jube” was acquiring 
tunder the daily tutelage of the new ‘“school- 
‘ mistis.”” 


‘Ef she’s been able fur ter poun’ any larnin’” 
; inter dis Juba’s numskull, she done a miracle,” 
> he said, ‘‘and ole Isrul’s boun’ fur ter give her 
oredit fur it.” 

Juba answered Uncle Israel’s hail with lagging 
and unwilling steps. 

‘‘ Ki, boy!’ cried the old man, “shuffle yer 
pegs faster’n dat, when yer knows yer school- 
mistis hev honored we ’uns wi’ er wisit, jes’ fur 
ter port on yer progress in larnin’. Come in, 
boy; come ’long in. Let’s hear you an’ de mistis 
pow-wow er bit ’bout yer books. Miss Bingley, 
>ma’am,” he said, dragging the boy inside the 
cabin, ‘“‘ax ’im er few questions, couldn’ yer, 
fur me an’ my ole ’ooman? Her an’ me ain’t 
got much larnin’, dat’s er fac’; but we’s mons- 
rous proud fur de boy ter larn jography, 
ph’losum’, an’ mathrumatics.” 

Miss Bingley, through her spectacles, looked 
severely at Juba, who, in his embarrassment, 
; was busily occupied digging ashes, with his toes, 
out of the cracks in the hearth. 

‘The boy, I am sorry to say,” she stated, with 
} precision, ‘is not as studious as he might be. 
Juba Beasle!”’ The last words were spoken in 
atone of sharp command. 

As the school- mistress uttered his name, 
; straightening herself majestically, Juba stepped 
quaking to the front, like a soldier under fire. 

‘‘Beasle! Of the heavens and the earth—the 
} flowers, trees, rivers, and tobacco-fields, which 


OI Ne aoe maw - 


RAR RRA ARAN AAR Re nn eee - ee oe ees 

we now see around us—what was there in } as she cond the visitor saphihae the action of 
existence before the creation of them, and of all } the forces controlling the motions of the earth, 
things ?”” while, with bent head, the patriarch turned over 
Juba walled his eyes, shifting his weight from} and over, in his bewildered brain, the novel 
one leg to the other, problems thus presented. 
‘‘Nothink whatsomever, mum, I reckin.”’ ‘And so you see how the turning of the earth 
“I should think you would know so, Beasle. } on its axis makes the change from day to night,” 
{ve told you it so many times. But goon: Of: : she said, in conclusion. 

what were all things created ?”’ ; From underneath his shaggy brows, Uncle 
Again Juba shifted his legs dubiously. ; Israel glanced at her curiously. His spirit of 
“Say ‘nothing,’ Beasle, and don’t leok stu- ; unbelief, the ingrained conservatism of his race, 
pid,”’ she said, severely. was waxing rebellious. 
‘‘T am er-sayin’ ‘nothink,’ ain’t 1? An’ 1} ‘Fore de gracious, mum, ef I kin see what de 
uin’t er-lookin’ stupid, ez 1 knows,” sullenly : yairth’s got ter do wi’ axes,” he said. «« Dere’s 
protested Juba. no-’count lazy niggers ‘nuff, ’bout dis settlement, 

“ Ki!’ said Aunt Hannah, shaking her finger } fur ter chop all de woods de yairth’s herricanes 
threateningly. ‘*’Member, you Juba Beasle:{ an’ whirlwin’s spar’s. An’ ez ter dis matter ov 
dere’s dat hickory twig seasonin’ fur yer, ober } de yairth whizzin’ ’bout de sun, wil’ ez er March 
dere in de chimbley-corner, if yer is sassy.” hare er a skittish dancin’-wench, why, mum,” 

«‘Hem!” said the teacher, who believed in} rising to his feet and vigorously knocking the 
moral suasion, and not in the rod, but did not} ashes from the bowl of his pipe, “‘ what Isrul am 
like to contradict Aunt Hannah before the boy. got ter qualify, on dat p’int, is dat ’tain’t noways 
~‘Now, Beasle, for some facts in nature and } sich ez he’s been larnt; an’, at pas’ seventy year, 
science. First: What's the shape of the world } he thinks hisself too ole er dorg fur ter be taught 
we live on?’’ new tricks like dese yere. Now, dat de sun do 

Juba brightened. move, we hev de Scripture fur ter prove, where 

“It’s roun’, like er orange; on’y it’s not yaller } Josh’wy hilt it back, you *members, from er 
ner juicy, 1 reckin, mum.” }gwine. An’ now yer think yer gwine ter make 

“Of course not, Beasle. It’s only in shape} me b’leve dat I haven’t seed de sun come up 
like an orange, you know. But we are on the } ayant dem Blue Ridge Mountings, an’ climb, an’ 
outside, like so many ants crawling on the} climb, an’ trabel er day’s journey, ter drap down 

weer ccccccccrrc- 

orange-rind—aren’t we?’’ ahint dese Peaks of Otter, over yere, back of dis. 
“‘Yes’m,”’ dutifully assented her pupil. Mistis, de sun do move.” And, with this parting 
But “ole Isrul’’ took the pipe from his mouth, { shot, he escaped from the cabin, leaving Aunt 
at this, and stared at the teacher. Hannah to finish the fight. 

‘‘Ts dat so, mistis?”’ he said. ‘Is yer sar- 

tin? Blest, mum, ef I hain’t allus s’posed ez 
how dis yairth were mos’ly flat nigh de middle, 
but riz at de aidges like er piggin er tin-pan.” 

Juba speedily followed, under cover . of Aunt 
Hannah’s voluble apologies for the ‘ nateral- 
born an’ mule-headed ignorumps of de ole man, 
which, when he tuk er notion, wouldn’ be turned 
“’Clar ter gracious!’ protested the wife of} right ner lef’, fur ter save yer soul—ner his’n.” 
his bosom, ‘‘de ignorumps ov dat Isrul.”’ Aunt Hannah’s ‘“soap-bilin’’’ took place “ fust 

Miss Bingley looked hopelessly grieved. : change ov de moon,” as arranged, and Juba kept 

“Mr. Beasle,’’ she said, benignantly, ‘you the pots and kettles boiling, as he had said he 
have yet to learn, also, that this world we live ; would. They bubbled so Tike a es caldron, 
on—even while we are sitting here, talking} that both Israel and his “ole ’ooman”’ were, by 
quietly—is whirling and rushing through space, } early bed-time, ready for a night of unbroken 
around the sun, faster than the fastest express-} repose. Nor did Juba desire to disturb them. 
train can run.” In his cuddy under the roof, he listened, at 

Involuntarily, Hannah clasped the arms of} a erack in the floor, for the first duet of snores 
her split chair, in the insecurity of such a state from the room below. When it came, he was, 
of progression, feeling certain of flying off at a} in a twinkling, noiselessly descending the outside 
tangent without delay. ladder. There, in the shadow of the big oak-tree, 

Israel looked stupefied, but rallied and said: } Billy and Ned were awaiting him. 

«“‘Is—is dat so? Well, mistis, whar's we | ‘““Whar’s yer dorg, Jube?” asked Billy, in a 
gwine?”’ shrill whisper. 

rrr cere r ccc rrre 

Such an emphasis of consternation was there,; Juba clapped his hands over the bulging 
in the tone and bearing of the man! As clearly } pockets of his trousers, and cried, dolorously : 




“Gunny muggles! ef I hain't forgot fur ter; answer not a word. Five, ten minutes passed, 
git dat key. De purp’s done got hisse’f locked ; in long-drawn-out misery; for the bed-cords 
in de back wood-shed, an’ de key’s in Aunt} creaked dolorously now and again, reminding 
Hanner’s pocket—clar ter gracious, ef ’tain’t!” } him that Aunt Hannah was still moving uneasily. 

He looked the picture of despair. } The cutting of the sharp edges of the box into 
‘‘Den yer must go arter it,’ were Billy's ; his shins constrained him, however, to ease his 
laconic words. 3 posture at last. “The shuffling, careful as he was, 

‘« But it’s in Aunt Hanner’s pocket, I tell yer,” ; broke Aunt Hannah’s slumber again. 
said Juba. ‘An’ de frock’s on de cheer, close? ‘ Who’s dat?” she sharply hailed, lifting her- 
ter de bed-pos’ whar dey’s sleepin’. But,” { self on her elbow. 
scratching his head, ‘‘I mought git in through ; In the shadow of the corner cupboard, the 
the kitchen-shed winder.” ’ culprit sat speechless, like an ebeny statue of 

“‘Dat’s de idee. Here goes, den.” ; Despair. 

Billy managed to raise the window, as he} “Ole ’ooman, ole ’ooman,’’ complained Uncle 
spoke; and Juba, once inside, easily lifted the} Israel, arousing also, “yer ‘pears monsrous 
latch of the door of the sleeping-room. Then he } oneasy, ter-night. Hev yer got de cramps er 
softly stole in, the steady snoring of the sleepers } anything?” 
encouraging him. > «De cramps!” petulantly resented the wife. 

It was not a difficult thing to grope his: way to ; “Specs you’d ha’ been hevin’ conwulsions, ef 
the bed, where he readily found the frock, that ; you’d er-thought there wuz bugglers prowlin’ 
hung across the chair-back. The key was in the ; *bout de house. I’ve heerd ’em er-trompin’.”’ 
pocket. But how to get into the pocket, after it,; ‘I ’specs I bes’ cut an’ run fur it,” thought 
was what began to puzzle Juba. In fact, by the » Juba, vainly attempting to rise. Desperate but 
time he had gone round and round the hem of} brief was the struggle. 
the frock a few dozen times, and had followed the» ‘‘Jeems’s River!’’ he said to himself. ‘I'se 
seams inside and out, feeling every inch of the? molded in tight an’ fas’ wi’ dis yere soap!” 
capacious waist and sleeves, his patience was Meantime, Uncle Israel, hearing Juba’s strug- 
exhausted ; Finally, like Alexander, he cut the; gles, buried his head under the “ kiverlid,” 
Gordian tangle by twisting the coveted key out ? thoroughly frightened, crying: ‘‘ Help! murder! 
from the bottom seam of the pocket. Hurriedly } help!” 
replacing the frock, he made a bee-line for the But, even as Juba wrestled, Aunt Hannah, 
door: that is, he thought he was making such } braver than her husband, struck a match, which 
a line, until convinced to the contrary by finding § flared upon the darkness: and, in a moment 
his nose suddenly flattened against a shelf of more, the luckless disturber of her repose was 
the corner cupboard. There was a stifled ejacu- ; revealed. 
lation; and, in his involuntary rebound, Juba ; “‘A-a-h, ha-ah!’’ she cried, pouncing upon 
tilted backward over some obstructive object, ? him. ‘‘T mought ha’ knowed (’twere jes’ you, 
and, to his horror, found himself, a second later, ; Juba Beasle. Up ter yer debbilment, ez yer allus 
utterly swamped in a box of the soap boiled that + is, is yer? Mussin’ my soap, is yer? Git up 

day, but now cold and rapidly congealing. ; outer dere, dis instance, yer owdacious—git up, 
‘“‘Ha-a-a!” shivered the boy, in sickened } I say!” 

disgust. $ The culprit would gladly have got up. But 
The sleepers stopped snoring. > he stuck fast, in spite of all his efforts. He 
Juba sat in agonized silence, holding himself! could only ward off the vigorous onslaught of 

poised over the sharp edge of the box. ; the irate Hannah by dodging his head hither 

Aunt Hannah, but half asleep, lurched over ; and thither, and protecting it as best he might 
heavily, the four-poster bed sepulchrally creak-} from the whackings and cuffings Aunt Hannah 

ing with her weight. ; aimed at him, right and left. 

“Juba, chile,’ mumbled the tired dame,; ‘Mammy, mammy,’” he protested, in a 
dreamily, ‘‘ keep de fire gwine; but don’ let dat; momentary cessation of these hostilities, ‘I 
soap bile over.”’ ¢ain’t er settin’ here ’case I wants ter. Bless 

‘Fore de gracious!’’ thought her luckless / gracious, ef de soap ain’t holdin’ of me tight ez 
nephew, as the soap, cold and slimy like a’ er oyster in er shell. Shore ez yer born, 
snake, crept through a rent in his waistband, } mammy, I never’d want ter set in er mess like 
“fore de gracious! ef I wuz on’y er piece of } dis.” 
grease, er-bilin’ up wi’ it, I wouldn’ keer much.”’; ‘‘ What'd yer do it fur, den? Yer meddlesome 
He had the discretion, though, to sit still and t no-’ count—” 



The boy’s fertile brain suddenly conceived a} and forced to submit to the imposition of having 
mode of escape from his predicament. { her jaws squeezed apart, aud to be strangled, in 

“wuz all erlong o° me er stumblin’ over de : fact, by Aunt Hannah’s plump hand being thrust 
soap-mol’, when I run in so fas’ fur ter tell yer} down her great throat. Half-way to the elbow 
dat de cow wuz out in her stall, er chokin’ ter; it went. But, when the stout fingers made a 
death wi’ er nubbin in her throat.” determined effort to seize and dislodge an import- 

““What? My cow chokin’ on er corn-nubbin? } ant gristle, or hinge of her swallowing-apparatus, 
Here, Isrul, len’ er han’, an’ holp me haul dis g Brindle concluded that cow-nature could stand no 
boy outer de soap-mol’. Now, den, pull!” i more. So she dipped her horns, and made a lunge 

And pull they did, with such a will that Jube ‘ at her persecutors, which released her promptly. 
popped up like a cork from a spruce-beer bottle, ; ‘Ef twuz er nubbin, it’s clar gone, anyhow,” 
leaving a regular suction-vacuum in the soap; ; smiled Hannah, triumphantly. ‘Hit give way, 

‘* Now come on, bof’ ov yer,’’ cried the ener- } when I pushed.” 
getic Hannah, fixing the tallow dip in the ‘“«T spec yer saved ole Brindle’s life, mammy,”” 
lantern; ‘‘ef dat Brindle’s swallerin’ ov er } hypocritically said Juba. 
nubbin crossways, dere’s no time ter lose.” ‘““Ay, boy! But herd a died onbeknownst, 
Two minutes later, Ned Sprouts and Billy} but fur you wakin’ us prompt,” she said. 
Sykes, retreating down the road, and looking } The ‘ole man” glanced dubiously at Juba. 
back, saw a strange procession emerge from the} He had no faith in the ‘“nubbin”’ story. 
cabin, and cross the yard to the cow-shed, where ‘‘Dere is some things ez is easier ter swaller 
Brindle, aroused from her peaceful slumbers, } dan nubbins is,’ he whispered to Juba, as they 
scrambled to her feet, with an air so frantic that } turned back toward the cabin. ‘Dat de yairth 
Hannah, flaring the lantern in her eyes rashly, } turns roun’ ez easier ter swaller. But I don’t 
concluded her to be, as Jube had affirmed, in the } b’leve dat, nohow, spite ob de Bosting school- 
last stages of strangulation. mistis. But min’ you, Juba, yer ain’t ter git in 
‘Hol’ de light, Jube,” she cried; ‘an’ you, } de habit ov settin’ up nights, in yer clo’es, 
ole man, scrouge her jaws open, can’t yer, an’ } waitin’ fur Brindle to choke herse’f: ef yer does, 
lemme reach fur dat nubbin.”’ I'll hab ter settle wid yer, wid de hickory twig, 
Poor victimized Brindle made an heroic resist- } It’s coon-huntin’ yer wuz arter, I ’specs, yer 
ance; but at last she was pressed into a corner, ’ young rascal.” 



WueEwn the moon is glittering brightly Yon bright star beams down upon me 
And the stars are all ablaze, Fondly a3 thy loving eye; 

And the night is hushed and silent And, in my joy, oh, I'm longing 
"Neath the night-queen’s brightest rays; To that planet, fair, to fly. 

And the whippoorwill, 80 shrilly, Could T love thee there more fondly ? 
Chants his mournful melody ; Couldst thou dearer be to me? 

And the wood gives back its echo— While that star is sweetly trembling, 
Then my heart communes with thee, Then my heart communes with thee. 

When the sun is sinking slowly Where—oh, where ?—art thou, this ev’ning? 
To its rest beyond the hills, But, wherever thou may'st be, 

And the murmure flow in musi¢ This is still my consolation: 
From the dancing little rills; Thou art thinking yet of me. 

And the wind, in softest whispers, And our hearts, in fond communion, ' 
Brings sweet memories to me, Are wherever thou may'st be: 

With a thrill of truest pleasnre— For I love thee dearly, dearly, 
Thev my heart communes with thee. Aud my heart communes with thee, 

When the twilight-zephyr's playing— Thou beloved one! my fancy 
Playing sweetly, far and near— Paints thy form as ever near. 

Then my lips are still repeating ‘Tis but fancy ; but thy spirit, 
Thine own name, to me so dear; Led by love. is snrely here. 

That dear name my heart re-echoes, Let me think this drea. is real: 
Dear indeed the sound to me; Happiness it brings to me. 

And. amid the lingering twilight— While thy spirit near me hovers, 

Then my heart communes with thee, Then my heart communes with thee, 



Wuen Kenneth Farley reached Vineta, a little { replied: ‘If you will excuse my saying it, 
seaside-resort on the Jersey coast, it was after} I think gentlemen have no right to use such 
a rainy drive of several miles from the railroad. ‘ language, either in or out of a lady’s presence. 
He was quite wet through, and was in no very } I did not know that gentlemen,”’ with emphasis 
gentle mood; so, when the landlady told him he } on the word, ‘did it.” 
was too late for supper, and demurred about; Kenneth turned more red than before, at this 
lighting the kitchen-fire anew to cook him any- i sharp reproof, and got out of the room as quickly 
thing, he fairly lost his temper. 3 as possible; for, at that moment, fortunately, his 

‘Curse such a hole,’ he said. ‘I thought ; supper was announced, and so he had an excuse 
you called this a hotel.” for leaving. He did not, we may well suppose, 

‘So it is,’ was the somewhat dignified reply. } return when he had finished his meal, but went 
“But the season has not yet opened, and our} to bed immediately. He could not sleep, how- 
supply of help is small, as yet. Besides, we did ever, for a long while. A lovely face haunted 
not know you were coming.” his waking dreams, and he was seized with a 

‘* Well,” said the young man, “get me some-} passionate longing to make those dark reproachful 
thing. I have come here, because I was told } eyes look at him with a different expression, to 
there was good sport; and I didn’t suppose it} hear those calm quiet lips speak in different 
necessary to write in advance.” And, as the { accents. 
landlady moved off, saying she would see what § Kenneth Farley had not a susceptible nature. 
could be done, he uttered another angry expletive, ; He was twentyeight; he was rich and good- 
and, striding up,to the fireplace, where some logs } looking; but very few women had found even 


were burning brightly, gave a vicious kick to one passing favor in his eyes. But it often happens 

of them. $ that men who have escaped heart-whole for 
‘*Deuce take it,’’ he said. “I wish I had} years are suddenly precipitated into the abyss 

never come to the beastly place.” of love. It happened so to Kenneth now. 

A half-uttered sigh startled him. He had} He had risen early, to stroll about; for the 
thought he was alone in the room; but, looking } storm was over, and the sun shone brightly; 
around, he saw that a large deep armchair, at} and, when he returned to the house, breakfast 
the side of the fireplace, sheltered an occupant, } was being served. Miss Onslow—for that, as he 
who, up to this moment, had been concealed from ; had found, on looking at the hotel-register, was 
him by the back of the chair. At the same} the name of the young lady—was already seated 
moment, a sweet womanly face, framed in rip-} at the table; but, when he bowed, somewhat 
pling brown hair, glanced up at him, with a half-} hesitatingly, she answered only with a slight 
sad, half-shocked expression in the dark-violet } cold inclination of the head. 
eyes. Kenneth, however, was not one to be dis- 

Kenneth turned a guilty scarlet. Here was} couraged. He was the more eager to succeed, 
a lady—undoubtedly, a real lady—who had ' because he was not in the habit of using strong 
caught him swearing in her presence. To make ; language, and had only been betrayed into it by 
matters worse—from one point of view, at least— , his discomfort and disappointment. «Oh,’’ he 
she was both young and pretty. He stammered, } said, “if I could only get her really to forgive 
pulled his mustache, and then began nervously } me.’ And, from that hour, he set himself to 
to apologize. the task. There was, as yet, but few guests at 

“TI hope you will excuse me,” he said. ‘I }the hotel, and this threw him and Miss Onslow 
have used language very unbecoming in a gentle- } a good deal together; but he made, apparently, 
man; but I did not know there was a lady} no progress whatever in her good graces. In 
present.” fact, Ethel, remembering that first night, hardened 

It was a lame excuse, he felt; and he was not } her heart deliberately against him. 
surprised at the result. For the dark-violet eyes The six weeks which Kenneth had intended 
were slowly lifled to his face, with a calm un-} to give to the seashore lengthened into eight; 
fathomable look, while a low musical voice { for, by this time, he had become madly in love, 


a eeeOSOSe ee 

and he could not tear himself away. Several; wreck. But, as the outlines grew more distinct, 
times, he decided to go; but, at the last moment, 3 he saw that they bore some resemblance to a 
changed his mind, Yet he felt his chance grow- 3 human form. 
ing less and less, every day. ‘The more so, as; ‘Good heavens!’’ he cried, springing to his 
the hotel was now full, and Miss Onslow had $ feet, and tossing off his coat in desperate haste. 
plenty of other suitors. § “What if—” 
The bathing-season had begun, when, one! For he remembered Ethel. What if it were 

morning, he met Miss Onslow, going to the beach, ¢ she, out there at sea, and drifting to her death? 
very early; in fact, before the guests at Vineta, The awful supposition chilled his blood.. Heed- 
generally, had left their beds. less of the risk he ran, he plunged into the sea, 
‘“‘Are you for a dip, to-day ?”’ he said, eagerly. { and swam out toward the object. It rose and 
‘May I not go in with you? Isn’t the surf; fell, with the motion of the waves: now coming 
grand? Aren’t you almost afraid of it?’ ; into sight, now disappearing; but there was no 
For there had evidently been a storm, out at {longer any doubt as to what it was: it was a 
sea; a cyclone, perhaps, so high ran the waves, woman’s figure, prone upon its back, and 
so loud roared the breakers. : seemingly insensible. 
‘Thanks !”’ she said, coldly. ‘But I'd much{ Was she floating, or was she dead? A terri- 
rather go alone. And I’m not the least afraid.” ; ble agony took possession of Kenneth’s mind. 
A deep flush overspread Kenneth’s face. At ; ‘‘Ethel!’’ he cried, in ringing tones. ‘‘ Ethel! 
first, he felt like turning on his heel and striding } Ethel!” 
away. But love was stronger than pride. { There was no answer. She was too distant to 
‘Why are you so unkind?” he cried, bitterly, _ Faster and faster, the apparently inani- 
at last. ‘‘ Have I persecuted you with so many mate figure drifted out to sea! 
attentions that you need insult me?”’ ¢ It was Ethel, he knew now. The surf had been 
‘“‘T did not mean to insult you,” she said, with ‘ too strong for her, and swept her off her feet: and 

heightened color. ¢she had only saved herself from drowning by 
‘You have never forgiven me, I know, for my 3 throwing herself upon her back. She could not 
conduct that first night. You are unjust.”’ ’swim, but she could float; and, for one whole 

‘‘Mr. Farley,” she said, indignantly, her dark ; hour of agony and suspense, she had kept herself 
eyes giving a quick angry flash, ‘‘when were ; Up, hoping for a rescue, yet drifting slowly out 

you appointed my Mentor?” ; to sea. 
A look of: pain crossed his face, as, with a’ Her strength was almost gone, when Kenneth 
sudden appealing gesture, he cried : ‘veached her. She had heard, but was too weak 
, Oh, Ethel—Miss Onslow, have pity! Don’t : to answer, his wild appeal: she could not, even 
you know I love you?” ¢ now, reply to him; she was barely able to turn 

She drew back, with a quick nervous start. her head. 
But he went on passionately: ‘‘I have loved: Desperation had lent him the strength of a 
you since the very hour we met. Do not let a; giant. He had battled the waves successfully, 
first impression bias your mind forever. You are $ where another would have failed. Ashe reached 
dearer to me than my life. Let me try to earn $ her, her eyes, for one moment, rested on his face. 

your esteem. Give me a chance—”’ ‘Then the long-strained muscles relaxed, and 
‘« Impossible !’’ she interrupted, in a cold hard ; only his protecting arm kept her above water: 
voice. ’ otherwise, she would have sunk forever. 

«‘Then,” he said, bitterly, as he turned and } 
left her, ‘‘I have nothing more to ask.” 

He walked on and on, along the strand, and to 
the curving cape which sheltered Vineta from the ¢ ing her to consciousness again. 
north winds, resolving to leave for his home that She opened her eyes, and met the. look of 
very night. At last, flinging himself down on ; passionate adoration fastened on her face. 
the wet sand, he watched the tempestuous waves, ‘ Then, with a faint blush, she closed her eyes 
which seemed to embody the tumult in his mind. { again. , 

Quite an hour passed, and still he lay there.’ “You are mine!’ Kenneth said, in a low, 
Presently something caught his eye: a black { scarcely audible, voice. ‘I saved you from 
object, tossed about by the waves, but slowly ‘death. I will never give you up.” 
drifting out to sea. Perhaps it was her weakness; perhaps a secret 

He looked at it long and attentively. What ; tenderness she had long striven against ; perhaps 
could it be? At first, he thought it a bit of {a.sense of her injustice to him, ‘and this noble 

It was one of heaven’s and love’s miracles that 
‘he ever reached the shore; but he knelt at last 
on the beach, holding her in his arms, and: kiss- 


Pn nner 




~ mn 

Oe nnn met 

return he had made for it; but, whatever it was, 
she allowed him to hold her there in his arms, 
and she smiled when he kissed her. 

‘‘Kenneth,”’ she said at last, in a faint voice, 
“TI am. suffering, dear. Can’t you get me 
home ?”’ 

He carried her all the way back, by easy 
stages: she resting in his arms, content and 

It was weeks before she recovered entirely 
from the shock. Ah, that happy season of con- 
valescence ! 

“ Darling,’’ Kenneth said, as he held her hand 
in his, and looked up at her fair sweet face, «I 



» only ask the privilege of proving my worthi- 
>? ness.”’ 

“Ah,” she answered, laying her other hand 
over his, ‘I do not need any further proof. I 
see that I wronged you. I had no right to 
judge from my first impression. But, at the 
}same time, dear, you must acknowledge that 
} you had no right to make that first impression 
} so painful.” 

‘No,’ he said, quite humbly; “I know I 
} hadn't.” 

I, the writer of this story, have just been to 
i St. Mark Church, to see them married. Such a 
* wedding as it was, too! 





Ou! I love to sit at twilight, 
When there scarce a sound is heard, 
Save the murmur of the leaflets 
By the summer-breezes stirred ; 
Or perhaps a bird’s faint twitter, 
Or the lowing cf the kine: 
Then LI love to sit, at twilight, 
With my baby’s hand in mine. 

With his little cheek of velvet 

To my own 80 closely pressed ; 
With his silky ringlets straying, 

In soft ripples, o’er my breast; 
While his tiny clasping fingers 

Round my own s0 clinging twine: 
Thus I love to sit, at twilight, 

With my baby’s hand in mine. 

Then T dream so bright a future 
For my little baby-boy. 
Where his hopes shall have no blighting, 
And his pleasures no alloy; 
And I see him fondly worship 
At each pure and holy shrine, 
When I sit and dream, at twilight, 
With my baby’s hand in mine. 


ween eee 

{ Never dream I of the trials 
{ That, in manhood, he must meet 
Nor of idols to be shattered 
Under careless-treading feet ; 
Nor of cherished schemes all thwarted; 
Nor of grief too deep for sign: 
Wren I sit and dream, at twilight, 
With my baby’s hand in mine. 

For there are so few such seasons 
(mn our care-encumbered road, 
When, from off our weary shoulders, 
Slides the sorely-pressing load, 
That I'll have no dark forebodings, 
In these moments near divine, 
When T sit and dream, at twilight, 
With my baby’s hand in mine. 


And T’ll trust the loving Father 
Who upholds me on my way* 

For J know He will not lead me 
Nor my baby-boy astray. 

Trust I, when hosts of heaven 
And saints of earth combine, 

I may kneel before His footstool, 
With my baby’s hand in mine. 



BY MRS. 8S. L. 


Tus waves dash in, and the waves roll out; 
They toss, they tumble, and frisk about; 
The sea is broad and long and wide. 
We, on the beach, note but its tide: 

The ermine edge, in its rise and fall, 

Fringing the sand; a mermaid’s shawl, 
Losing its pendants of shells and pearls 
On the silvery line where seaweed curls, 

Note but the billows’ broad expanse 
And here, where the white-winged breakers dance, 

The restless pulse of a power sublime, 
That heeds no season and knows no time! 

We reach for the snowy flakes that yearn 

For the undercurrenut’s backward turn, 
And catch but a breath of salt, salt air, 
While a wave runs out, to sing: “ Beware!" 

Break on, O sea of the ages past! 

Our thoughts you anchor and bind them fast ; 
While you are deaf and blind, that we, 
Mites of a day, are your lovers—sea! 




[Entered acoording to Act of Congress, in the year 1885, by Miss Ann Stephens, in the Office of the Librarian of 
Congress, at Washington, D. C.] 


- Mrs. BoarpMaNn.” A card, with this name 

still carried a portion of its bright atmosphere 
with her; and, being slender and still well 

upon it, was brought to Mrs. Brooks, and 3 formed, adapted her dress rather to her feelings 

presented in due form. 

She had not been} than her years. The gloves on her small white 

accustomed to such announcements at the Hollow } hands, the boots upon her dainty feet, and the 
s-* . . 5 . . 
Swamp farm, where visitors did not always wait } airy summer fabrics she wore, had all an atmos- 

to knock at the door, and she was rather puzzled } 

phere of cheerfulness and good-will in them 

to know the exact meaning of this bit of paste- ; which made any room brighter when she entered 

board, in a huge hotel. She took up the card, 
colored a little, and was about to ask what it 
meant, when Dorothea looked over her shoulder, 
and told the waiter, with a slight catch of the 
breath, to show the lady in. The moment he 
was gone, that young person turned upon her 

“‘I declare, ma, you make me blush. That 
impudent fellow was beginning to smile all over 
his face when he saw how puzzled you were. 
It seems to me as if you never can learn how 
to carry things off genteelly. Didn't I tell you 
that cards are always sent in, before a visitor 
calls? It is the stylish thing everywhere.” 

‘‘IT understand that well enough,” said Mrs. 
Brooks, always impatient under her daughter’s 
fashionable lectures. ‘‘ But, in a hotel, where 
you can run into rooms under the same roof 
every ten minutes, how could I expect a thing 
like that to be crowded in upon me?” 

“My dear ma—mamma, I mean—you see how 
much I try to harmonize myself with the sur- 
roundings here. No one catches me forgetting 
myself, in company: though ‘ma’ will sometimes 
slip out when we are alone. If you would only 
put your mind to it as I do, it wouldn’t be such 
up-hill work for me.” 

‘*T wish the lady, whoever she is, would come 
in. It requires the patience of Job to be alone 
with you ten minutes. One would think me 
a child, and you a Sunday-school teacher.” 

Dorothea had an answer ready, but it died on 
her lips; for Mrs. Boardman entered, just as 
some lovely old picture of the last century might 
have stepped out of its frame. This nice old 
lady had counted years enough for sackcloth and 
ashes; but she had no taste for anything of the 
kind. Though youth had left her long ago, she 

it. She always wore flowers somewhere about 
her: a tuft of violets in the lace on her bosom, 
or perhaps a rose in the puffs of her silken gray 
hair, Just then, she carried a branch of Jacque- 
minot roses by its thorny stem, and, after shaking 
hands, held it out to Mrs. Brooks. 

“Isn’t the scent delicious?” she said. “I 
would give it to you entirely, only a kind gentle- 
man had been keeping it for me ever so long. 
People know how I love such pretty things, and 
are good enough to remember me. It was one 
of my prime favorites who gave me this—young 
Dayton. Do you know him? If not, I must 
introduce you.” 

Dorothea flushed crimson, and her mother 
spoke eagerly, glad to claim anyone as an 
acquaintance who seemed to be a favorite in her 
new world. 

“Ah, indeed? Iam glad you happen to know 
him,” Mrs. Boardman went. on, seating herself 
in a cushioned rocking-chair, and swaying it 
with a gentle motion as she talked. ‘He is 
one of the brightest young men. that we have 
among us; popular on all sides; not rich: but 
that is nothing to such of us as have drifted off 
from the marrying-list, or have so much money 
in possession that it is of no consequence. I 
knew his mother quite intimately; and, if I 
remember rightly, his father was in love with 
me a little, at one time—or I with him: I really 
cannot say which it was. But there was some- 
thing that made me take kindly to the handsome 
young fellow, and this is a proof that he recipro- 

Here Mrs. Boardman leaned forward, took the 
branch of roses from Mrs. Brooks, who did not 
well know how to dispose of it, and, gently 
rocking back, inhaled its perfume luxuriously, 





~w PRR OOO ees 

Penn nnn nnn 

while she regarded the sudden change in Doro-} much heed to the gentle truth she was uttering 
thea’s countenance with well-concealed interest. } till they began to effect the grand object of their 

Mrs. Brooks had waited for Dorothea to speak } present lives—social ambition. They were thirst- 
first; for the girl had so far dominated over her} ing to obtain all the information this little 
high spirit, by an assumption of superior experi- { woman of the world might contribute to their 
ence, that the usually haughty and self-possessed { own advancement, and listened eagerly when 
woman felt under surveillance, that gave ruder} she began to speak of Mrs. Humphrey Vose and 
force to her manner when she did venture to } the position she had held so long in the ebb 
give an opinion. ; and flow of fashionable life at the springs. 

“Oh, yes,” she said; ‘Mr. Dayton is almost; ‘That woman seems to sweep everything 
an old friend of ours. We became acquainted 3 before her,” said Mrs. Brooks, beginning to feel 
with him in the country, where our farm—I mean, $a lively interest in the conversation. ‘It 
where our landed estate lies. He is an agent; surprises me that a married woman, with chil- 
of ours—not that I think him less of a gentleman } dren, can maintain the position she holds without 
for that. Indeed—” $ neglecting everything.” 

“Oh, ma, ma, you speak as if he were what ‘‘Of course,’ answered Mrs. Boardman, with 
they call an employé. Mr. Dayton is nothing of ; a low sweet laugh, which was usually the only 
that kind, but a manager or stockholder or some- ; criticism she chose to make on the conduct of 
thing, in the company, and may be rich as the { those around her. ‘The belles of society ought 
best of us, some day.”’ ; to have no duty save that of making themselves 

Mrs. Boardman looked into the girl's face, and } charming. Adulation should be gracefully met 
then dropped her eyes, whispering to herself:  ; with adulation. To be flattered, one must flatter. 

‘‘ Pretty, rich, and already over head and ears 3 Therefore, I have always contended—against 
in love with him—I think it very likely. But‘ great odds, though—that married belles are an 

that is not the one I should have chosen.”’ $ incongruity. Besides, as in politics, there ought 
‘For my part, I shall be very glad to meet} to be rotation of place, in society. Even great 
Mr. Dayton again,’”’ said Mrs. Brooks. ‘My ¢ actresses do not keep upon the stage forever.’ 

husband is very little with us. Doroth—Dora ‘ In this conversation, there was a phase of 
and I were beginning to feel a trifle lonesome. ; gentle antagonism to Mrs. Humphrey Vose, that 
It seems so strange to be, all the day long, with ; two of the parties did not understand. Mrs. 
nothing to do. I begin to think the hardest { Boardman’s visit to the Brookses’ parlor had 
duty of life is to amuse oneself.” 
Mrs. Boardman laughed pleasantly. 

; been one of friendly observation, suggested by 
? Mrs. Norris, whose animosity to the favorite had 
“Oh, that is what one learns without much / been curdling into a strong purpose since that 
trouble. So long as people are capable of enjoy- { insolent bit of bravado in the balcony. 
ing themselves, society is never on such a dead “Find out what is in the girl beside her 
level that someone in it will not relieve us from } beauty, and how far the mother can be relied 
ahsolute ennui by making himself ridiculous, or} upon,” she said. ‘You have a charming habit 
by exciting sympathy. After all, society is the of bringing out the best points of a character. 
same thing all over the world: the only way to} I have always told you so.” 
enjoy oneself in it is to find resources in your; Mrs. Boardman knew that her friend was very 
own intelligence and the exercise of all your; much in earnest, when she took the trouble te 
faculties. ‘These are pleasures that last. ‘Io be} form any request in a compliment, and had 
happy, after all, one must be good. Let the} proceeded in her mission with all her faculties on 
conflicting interests of society rally around you the alert. She soon assured herseif that Mrs. 
as they will, it is in your own consciousness of } Brooks possessed the energy and force of will 
well-doing that real happiness is to be found.” {that would make her an active agent in any 
Mrs. Boardman said this in her light pleasant} purpose she might form. She was certainly 
way, which took from it all the air of superior } subdued and ill-at-ease, in her new life; but a 
wisdom and the irksomeness of a lecture. It was } little experience and her own self-esteem would 
this which made her conversation so agreeable. $ soon restore the poise of her character, and 
With far less pretension than her stately friend, } harmonize it with her present surroundings. 
Mrs. Norris, she was constantly scattering little As for the girl, the little lady had the misgiv- 
pearls of wisdom about her, which sometimes { ing of great distrust. She was, in a certain way, 
gleamed out again in some younger person’s ; beautiful. Her person possessed the natural 
thought, and found popular circulation. grace which people call ‘‘style.’”’ She was apt, 
But neither Mrs. Brooks nor Dorothea gave ‘ quick of comprehension, and capable of brilliant 

RAR ~ wn ARR aA 

repartee. That was easily discovered: for ou 3 
thea, always ready to exhibit her best points, } 
had more than once broken in upon her mother’s 
conversation, and taken the lead herself; but ; 
always in a sparkling careless way, that might ; 
have excused the fact to a person of less delicate } 
taste than the lady who was in fact gently inter- } 
viewing them. 
As Mrs. Boardman was gathering up her light 

draperies, ready for departure, a voice—low, > more hateful than ever to me.”’ 
sweet, and musical as a bird’s—came upon her } 

from the next room, with a pleasant surprise ; 




For once, Mrs. Boardman gave Dorothea a look 
of cordial approval. 

‘‘T would rather hear her sing,” she said, 
with the enthusiasm of one to whom music was 
a passion. ‘Pray, would you mind asking her 
to go on?” 

Mrs. Brooks gave her daughter an angry 
3 glance, which said as plainly as words could 
speak: ‘‘ You seem determined to make that girl 
Dorothea gave 
her head a toss, in defiance of the glance, and 
} went into the next room, whence came some 

and she settled back in her chair, content to} ; half-suppressed words of request and expostu- 
remain while that music continued. Dorothea} lation. Then Dorothea appeared again, and the 
had entered an inner room, a few minutes before, } music of a simple Scotch ballad, old-fashioned 
and the lady naturally supposed that the voice } as the hills, touched that kind listener so tenderly 
was hers; and, from the pleasure it gave, was } that her eyelashes were wet when she took leave. 
ready to excuse the want of good-breeding that } 
had taken that young lady so unceremoniously } CHAPTER XXI. 
from her presence. It is not always the young men of society who 
Mrs. Brooks flushed as the sound broke upon } are most efficient in giving position: but the 
her. Directly, Dorothea came back into the} habitués, who have watched the rosebud-season 
room, and the sweet notes of the music floated } and the full blossoming of bellehood of many an 
in after her. ’ ambitious woman whom their applause or neglect 
“That is a charming voice,” said her visitor, } has left to disappointment or drifted into success. 
partly closing her eyes, as she listened to the} This middle-aged class, in the social world, holds 
faint notes of the accompaniment as they died }a power that a very young person is likely to 
away. ‘A little more cultivation will make it? estimate at less than its real worth for good or 
perfect.”’ Sevil. It has experience, and, frequently, no 
Dorothea saw her mother’s annoyance, and} higher aim in life than the influence it has 
seemed to share it. After a moment’s hesitation, 3 established. In almost all great centres of 
she said, with a catch of the breath: 3 fashionable life, some clique of this kind may 
“Oh, that is—”’ be found—giving laws, regulating amusements, 
Mrs. Brooks interrupted her. 2and absolutely forcing its own opinions for 
“It is her music-teacher. She did not know } unanimous adoption by the throng, so eager in 
that we had company. Such people never will} search of excitement that it has no time for 
come under proper regulation. I am sorry that } individual judgment. 
her performance has disturbed you. Doroth— In a clique like this, Chapperton was the busy 
Dora has done right to stop her.” central force. To be a leader of fashion—to 
“Disturbed me? Oh, no,” exclaimed Mrs. ; exalt one man with his -approbation, and pull 
Boardman, with animation. ‘A voice like that ¢ down anether by his frown or indifference—was 
has nothing but charm for me. As 1 said before, ; the aim of his great ambition. After all, it was 
perfect cultivation will soon raise your teacher }an arduous position he had worked out for 

into a better position. Who is she, pray? 
one that I have ever heard of?” 

“No, certainly not,” answered Mrs. Brooks, 
more and more annoyed. ‘Only a young person 

we brought from the country, partly because of ; 
her progress in music, and partly as Dora’s > 


“Companion!” broke in Dorothea, with a * 

generous flush that rose to her temples: ‘“ com- 
panion! And I may call her my friend; for 
we have lived close by each other all our 
lives. I have always thought that Rue had a 
lovely voice. It is a pleasure, even, to hear her 


Any. ! 

himself. To decide on the claims of rival 
| beauties—to put down those who ventured to 
; enter his little kingdom without first seeking his 
; help—was no light duty, and required mental 
effort and an entire want of feeling that ought 
> to have won prosperity in some more dignified 
’ walk of life. 

This man, with half a dozen others of his own 
, class, had a game-dinner each week, at the white 
+ hotel on the lake, where they consulted, held 
; council, and joined forces over courses of game. 
fish, and birds, all the more delicious to them 
when prohibition made their enjoyment a breach 
of the game-law. 

ae MPRA. 



ww Aree nee 


The club-room of this aristocratic band was 
in a wing of the white hotel, that overlooked 

a bridge that crosses one end of the lake, and } 
commanded a view of Point Breeze, on the oppo- } 

site side, with a fine sweep of the upper lake. 

It was a lovely moonlight evening, and a more ° 

entrancing view than could be obtained from the 
windows can hardly be imagined. But the cordon 
of middle-aged men who were in the secluded 
dining-room, where the remnants of a sumptuous 
meal still lay, had become so familiar with this 
moonlit panorama that no one todk the trouble 
to draw a curtain or lift a blind, but remained 
seated around the table, luxuriously content with 
cigars or cigarettes: talking, as they had often 

done before, of Mrs. Humphrey Vose, whose name } 

was that moment bandied to and fro under a thin 
cloud of purple smoke, that waved into eddies here 
and there when some opinion more emphatic than 
usual disturbed the level run of conversation. 
“The truth is,’’ said one dilletante elderly 
young person, who wore a serpent-ring on the 
little finger of the plump white hand with which 
he flipped off a tiny accumulation of ashes from 
his cigar, ‘the truth is, Vose is fast becoming 
impossible. She has ceased to give credit to our } 

; Oh, Chapperton can be trusted for that,” 
‘ broke in three or four voices at once. ‘ He has 
got someone in his eye.”’ 
Chapperton tilted his chair rather dangerously, 
; threw back the lapels of his coat, and hooked 
his thumbs into the armholes of his vest. The 
> pockets were not far enough apart to permit the 
swell of his ambition. 
3 “Wait awhile, and we shall decide that,’’ he 
‘ said, with-a satisfied smile. “Of one thing I 
am determined: our next female sovereign shall 
‘bave neither husband nor children. They are 
> demoralizing. Besides, such persons can only 
‘ sink back into divorce or domestic insignificance. 
‘ Our next choice must be—” 
‘*Someone the Prince has smiled upon,’’ said 

Sone, with a careless laugh. 
$ Chapperton released his hands, and spread 
them out with a deprecating gesture. 
$ ‘No, no; that idea will not take root on this 
i side the Atlantic. We have better judges and 
‘brighter material than he has ever discovered. 
It is the craze of society to follow England in 
everything; but that will soon reverse itself, and 
we will begin the revolution.’’ 
“T do not yet comprehend what fault Mrs. 

taste, and puts on airs, as if she could do with- { Humphrey Vose has committed, that you are all 
out it, It is not her reputation that is at stake, / so bitter against her,” said the youngest member 

but ours. Now that Chapperton has broached 
the subject, I do not mind saying that a new 
and—heaven forgive me—younger face would 
make society grateful to us; but where is it 
to be found ?”’ 

‘*Certainly not in a married woman, who is 
making desperate efforts to combine domestic 
virtue with the sovereignty of bellehood. No 
person can arrange that impossibility better than 
the Vose, but it has long been vulgarizing her 
position. She gets irritable, and sometimes 
disagreeable, under the complication. I am glad 
to find that Chapperton begins to see things in 
that light. For it really was his influence that 
put Mrs. Humphrey Vose on her pedestal.’’ 

“‘T only took her beauty and accomplishments 
into consideration, then; the husband and the 
rest were of no account,’’ said Chapperton, 
leaning back in his chair and putting both 
thumbs into his vest-pockets. 

‘Oh, the husband of a reigning beHe never is 
of much account anywhere,” laughed one of the 
younger members of the council, throwing his 
half-smoked cigar into the ash-tray contempt- 
uously, as if it had been the handicapped thing 
he was speaking of. ‘‘Only, the poor fellows 
will not always be kept out of sight. But, when 
we have dethroned the favorite, Chapperton, 
where is her substitute to be found ?”’ 

of the club, who had said but little till now. 

‘‘Only this,” answered Chapperton: ‘she has 
outlived our liking.’’ 

He spoke sharply. It was not often that he 
did this; but this unexpected opposition, slight 
as it was, irritated him. 

The youngest member saw this, and rather 
enjoyed it; for, just then, he was in bigh favor 
with Mrs. Vose, and ready to defend her, while 
there was not another man in the room who had 
not, during the years of her supremacy, hoarded 
up some slight, or sharp repartee, or other cause 
of resentment against her. 
$ ‘For myself,”’ he said, ‘I have never found 
; her less than charming.’’ 
$A low derisive chuckle went round the table, 
which brought some angry blood into the young- 
est member’s face. 

“That is because you have been so lately 
introduced to her, and to us. You have no 
claim on the gratitude she cannot feel, and there 
is no need of pretense where all real feeling is 

‘‘T should not care to have any service I could 
render a lady, burden her with a sense of grati- 

Again a derisive laugh ran around the table, 
and a voice that came out of it said: 

3 ‘Gratitude? That is 2» word to which Mrs. 

NA ne nn eee 



Ramiphitey Vose attaches no meaning. Itisher} It was a , {idee witty, taking a sooth 
philosophy to drain the juice of ler lemon, and ; sail down the lake. 
throw away the peel: I’ve heard her Say it.”’ ; Ward watched the craft with a slight feeling 
The young man—for he had not yet reached { of envy. He remembered that Mrs. Vose had 
middle-age—ceased to contend.’ The words that ; invited him to join the excursion, to be given in 
had been reported as coming from the lips of } her honor, and to which she, as usual, controlled 
Mrs. Vose had struck upon hin painfully. {the invitations. This dinner at the hotel had 
Could such cold selfishness be the motto of that prevented Ward's acceptance; and, to him, it 
gifted—and, to him, beautiful—woman, who } was a loss. How pleasantly the little crowd 
had, in a hundred different ways, singled him ' upon that yacht was enjoying itself! A faint 
out as an object of especial regard ? } sound of music reached him from the distance. 
Meantime, a cynical smile had passed around } It came nearer and more distinct. Someone on 
the little circle. There was scarcely & man pres-? board was playing the banjo, and, with it, now 
ent who had not gone through this bit of disen- ; and then, came the rise and fall of a female 
chantment with Mrs. Humphrey Vose. To most ; voice—soft, clear, and in wonderful cultivation. 
of them, she had expressed what she intended to} Ward had heard that voice before, but never 
he considered exclusive gratitude for their atten- in the open air, with a gentle night-wind to waft 
tions, and this sweet delusion had in each case; it onward. 
won deeper devotion to her cause; but a great; ‘She is in high spirits, to-night. My absence 
outgush of feeling becomes very tiresome after; does not depress her so much as she predicted ; 
its object is secured. New friends had required but music is her passion—as she said, I remem- 
all her vivid sensibilities, or there might be a ber, with that she might console herself.’’ 
falling-off in her train of admirers. The barge drew up to its wharf. Its occupants 
The elder members of the club understood all } came on shore—laughing, talking, and apparently 
this, and, with them, the interchange of smiles; happy as birds let loose from a cage. Mrs. Vose 
began. This feeling of contempt for the youngest } came first, leaning on the arm of a young man 
member was so evident, that he winced under it. } with a certain surrender of effort that seemed 
Some of his associates appeared to have an } to throw herself entirely on his support. These 
understanding among themselves, from which he} two mounted the hill in advance of their party. 
was excluded. This thought irritated him, and 5 Ward remembered when she had leaned on him 
he arose and quietly sauntered out of the room. } with the same confiding grace, and drew his 
A restrained laugh followed him. } breath heavily. She was very heautiful, coming 
‘He is in the first stage,” said one. ‘I found } up the green slope of the hill, with the moonlight 
it very agreeable. To feel that one is lifted out on her face, and two white and gloveless hands 
of the level and placed on a pedestal by a charm- } ; clasped over that young man’s arm in a way that 
ing woman—and, after all, Vose is that—has a! would have seemed caressing, had he been her 
captivating effect. She must have some idea of} husband. As it was, Ward ground his teeth, 
how things are drifting, when her fascinations{as he looked on, all the more because her 
are wasted on him.’ ; attitude seemed so natural. 
Why? He could not have told you, had you 
CHAPTER XXII. ‘asked him. The woman was nothing to him. 
Mr. Warp—for that was the younger member’s She had never professed to be anything more 
name—had wandered out into the moonlight, than a friend; but, with her, as she did not 
which lay full upon the front of the hotel, sur-} hesitate to say, with childlike innocence, friend- 
mounting the sweep of a grassy hill, that gave ship was more intense than the love of most 
him a full view of the lake and its interlocking ; women, and she did not bestow it lightly or 
shores, where the shadows of tall trees, broken } without corresponding devotion. 
promontories, and stretches of wild-wood wore a These very words had been said to Ward, and 
faint tinge of green in the darkness. Moonlight } he remembered them with a sting of resentment 
swept the water, quivering over it like flashes of} as she came so leisurely sauntering up to the 
chain-mail cast down on a battle-field. Lights} veranda. She must not find him there—at least, 
flashed here and there from the farm-houses all } not in his present mood. What should he do? 
along the shores; and, in the midst of the water, } Go back to his comrades in the dining- room, 
ploughing up its silver like a fairy-bark, came a} where the atmosphere was heavy with smoke 
tiny steam-yacht, lighted up with Japanese lan- 3 and scandal? 
terns, and flinging back curls of white smoke, in} No; his heart rebelled against that. An empty 
which sparks of fire flashed here and there. ‘room, in which the lights had been extinguished, 


was left with one of its windows still open, He 
hurried into the room, and sat down in the 
shadows: unconscious, in his irritation, that he 
might seem to be an intentional listener. His 
heart beat quickly, as Mrs. Humphrey. Vose came 
up a short flight of steps directly opposite the 
window. She did not remain there, but com- 
menced walking up and down the long veranda, 
still with her hands clasped over the young 
man’s arm, and with her face lifted to his, 

The party from the yacht swarmed up the 
steps; but she was too pleasantly occupied for 
any regard to the movements of her friends; 
and, seeing this, they moved off to a distant part 
of the veranda, and proceeded to entertain them- 
selves until their carriages were ready. 

Directly, paper cornucopias, full of those 
erisply-curled and transparent fried potatoes that 
have rendered the name of Moon famous, were 
served among them, and were daintily eaten from 
the gloved or ungloved fingers, as bonbons are 
eaten in Paris. 

When a waiter brought one of these cornu- 
copias to Mrs. Vose, she seated herself by that 
open window, and went on with the low-voiced 
conversation she had maintained since she came 
up from the lake. 

Ward, who was sitting back among the shad- 
ows, could not move without discovering himself. 


PARA RAR nnn er emer 


ah ain A sain e aie binidcnaiibinahadnanaidilii 
Shave accepted, beyond the hungry grasp of 
‘ vanity, which looked upon all men as its prey, 

To the young man who listened to her low 
caressing voice, it had all the pathos and power 
of deep feeling, though she spoke of things so 
sacred to a proud and honorable woman, that 
violets in their first dew would have seemed more 
harmonious than the bits of potato she was 
crushing between her teeth. Indeed, it would 
have been impossible for any woman to have 
expressed herself more touchingly. 

Ward listened to it all, and absolutely sickened 
beneath the infliction. Every word of this 
sweetly-modulated falsehood had been poured 
softly into his own ear, and the result was the 
; infatuation that makes thoughtful men ridiculous, 
Seven in their own estimation, when the delusion 

is swept away. 


How stale, how insipid and egotistical the 

* words that had charmed him fell upon his ear 
; when addressed to another person! ‘The lady 
shad practiced them so often, and with such 
’ thrilling effect, that they fell from her lips almost 
without the ring of false metal. He recognized 
even the changes of voice that heralded suppressed 
tears or deeply-smothered sorrow, as she described 
the loneliness of an uncongenial marriage—the 
} struggles of a wife, superior in her own nature, 
to lift a commonplace husband to the level of a 

Indeed, he did not think of anything more than } grand intellectual career. How distasteful it was 
keeping the concealment he was in; for such } to refinement of character to accept the homage 
careless conversation as can be expected in the {or wealth of such men, without longing to cast 
open air, and surrounded by company, was not } it aside with bitter loathing! Of course, she did 
likely to have any serious element of secrecy { not speak of such persons in her own experience. 

in it. 

‘Protest against it as you will, some great 
ehange has come over you since we met,’’ she 
was saying. 

“Very likely,” said the young man. ‘Just 
then, I was so bewildered—so fascinated, if you 
will permit me to say it—that you must have 
been glad to get rid of my crude attentions. 
{ have had more serious things to think of, 
since then.” 

‘* More serious than the perfect friendship that 
was more to me than. the devotion of other men? 
That was a feeling I have always supposed would 
last forever.” 

The young man bent his face toward her, and 
the moonlight. fell upon it—-a strong handsome 
face, full of manly earnestness. 

He was no languid dude, casting his weak 
homage at the feet of this astute woman, but a 
man of earnest purpose, who had evidently, at some 
period of his life, been under her influence, to 
which she was attempting to lure him back: for 
no reason, as anyone who knew her well would 

¢ The only return she was able to make a husband 

who adored her was to accept his magnanimity, 
3 without a sign of the humiliation it cost her to 
; take so much, when her heart was craving for 
; some more delicate form of appreciation. 

It was hard, she said, to chain one’s self down 
to the mere luxuries of life; and harder still, 
that they should become the necessities of a 
$ refined soul, that aspired to grander and higher 
; attainments. 

3 Her children? Ah, yes; she had, in them, a 
$ source of delight—she could almost say, of ado- 
gration. There, her heart might safely anchor 
; itself ; bat, in an uncongenial marriage, there 
was always a sadness of feeling that maternal 
love could never supply. Perhaps it was that 
there was such warmth and depth of feeling in 
her own heart that— But she must not speak 
so much of herself. No doubt, if she had missed 
entire happiness in domestic life, the fault lay 
in her own nature. It was so difficult to keep 
a bird, longing for the free air, in a cage, gild it 
¢ever so brightly. Sometimes, she did feel like 

as 1 

a& mm 

as ¢ 




ON es , AAA 




Seteahihens Sane the oldie a that most { “1 have worn it all tn, thinking to give it 
women slave for. Without love, and its entire to you at night, fresh from my heart. If you 
devotion, she could imagine nothing worth living} should dream on it, tell me what it says, in 
tor, } the morning.” 

All this had been said a hundred times, and in} ‘lhe young man took the flowers, and thanked 
as many different ways, to men who felt them-{ her; but he did not hide them in his bosom, as 
selves selected out to receive what seemed to’ she had expected, or touch the hand that held 
them a sacred confession—forgetting that, with { them toward him. 

a married woman who can take any person into} Ward, in a shadowy way, saw and heard all 

her domestic confidence, nothing can be sacred. ; that passed. They were his violets she had 
‘he man inside the window, and the man who } given: the little tuft of blossoms that was to 
was bending toward the lady, had both been ‘console her for his enforced absence, she had 
introduced into the secret recesses of her lonely said, during all the lonely hours that must follow 
heart, as she called that portion of her symmetri- ; before they could meet again. 
cal figure now marked by a cluster of violets, the} With an inmrprecation, all the more vehement 
offering of Mr. Ward himself, at the time he / because he was compelled to smother it, Ward 
made his excuses for not joining her party. ; started from his chair and left the room, not even 
There was something so feminine, in this { caring to tread softly. Mrs. Vose was startled 
approach to what Mrs. Humphrey Vose regarded } by this sound of heavy footsteps so near them, 
as entire friendship, that half the woman’s popu- { and arose with more precipitation than was usual 
larity had been perpetuated by the sympathy ‘ to her. 
which exalted her into a martyr, and degraded ’ ‘‘T hear the carriages: our friends are coming 
her husband into a creature who, having pur-; this way. In another moment, we must face :the 
chased so much beauty and exquisite sensitiveness } world again, and be like the rest. So, good- 
with his wealth, should think that sufficient ; night.” 

compensation for magnanimous liberality and } 
honest affection. CHAPTER XXIII. 
Mrs. Vose was far too wise in experience to; Ir was no unusual thing for Mrs. Humphrey 

allow any subject she touched to merge into | Vose to hold a sort of morning-levee, in the: 
weariness. She was a creature of infinite { hotel-parlor, before she excluded herself for the 
variety, and knew how to glide from a state of } afternoon-toilet, about which she was particularly 
fine poetic despondency into heroic cheerfulness, fastidious. Occasionally, when the day was 
without destroying the effect of one sentiment } sultry, she was followed by her little court into 
with the other. She had learned to smile as} the open verandas, where strangers might be 
teardrops were trembling on her eyelashes, and } informally presented, and polite forms of adula- 

drifted off into a strain of pleasant hopefulness tion ventured upon without much regard to cere- 
with wonderful tact. ¢ mony. 

Now that her destiny was fixed, and all the } The Club,” as that superior gathering of 
bright aspirations for superior love seemed out of } gentlemen called itself, was usually in attendance 
reach, she might seek compensation in the friend- on these occasions, ready to endorse the popu- 
ship which, with her, had always been more pas- } larity of the favorite with their stale compliments, 
sionate, more steadfast and full of poetry, than ; or gather in new recruits with the assiduity of 
the best affections some women were capable of ' royal chamberlains, when any stranger appeared 
bestowing. In such friendship, her soul, if not } worthy of their social consideration. 
her heart, must find its best delight. Here Mrs.}; One of these pleasant gatherings had begun 
Humphrey heaved a deep sigh, exactly the coun- to assemble around her, on the morning after 
terpart of one the listener inside of the window } the club held its weekly game-feast at the lake ; 
had heard on another occasion. ‘ but, instead of bowing before the lounging-chair 

Neither this soft heaving of the breath, nor all! in which the lady posed with such graceful 
the touching eloquence that preceded it, produced ; ; languor, Mr. Chapperton kept aloof, and was 
its usual effect on the young man who had been ‘ so busy in conversation with two or three gentle- 
its object, and Mrs. Vose was led to a deeper / men at one end of the veranda, that he paid-no 
effort of sentiment in his behalf. In lifting one { regard to her presence there. 
hand to her bosom, as the sigh escaped it, she ! 

At other times. those who could merely claim 
4 . . 

loosened the tuft of violets that lay there, and, ; acquaintance with the lady gave room to her more 
after a moment’s hesitation that was almost } powerful admirers; but, just then, they were 86 

girlish, held it toward him. { scattered and occupied, that no one of them came 
Vor. LANNIX.-—81. 


PPI LI PP APRA. wre a , 
- eer ee PRR PP PLL IL III IE ee 

cenend to claim his otenans and, for once, Mrs. $ in her chair—too indolent, it seemed, to open the 
flumphrey Vose had been permitted to pass to} fan that lay idly in her lap; but no member cf 
her seat with no distinguished escort by her side, ; her coterie had as yet claimed the privilege of 
and to remain there several minutes quite alone. opening it in her behalf. 

Mrs. Vose was annoyed. The situation was pel, The color slightly mounted to her cheek, as 
of the novelties that she was not prepared te} she saw this, and it deepened to a flush of 
accept as a compliment. The attentions of her} pleasure when young Dayton moved quietly to 
elderly admirers had become tiresome in the her side, and, taking up the fan, waved it gently 
extreme. ‘Their obsolete witticisms and labored as he conversed with her, with an appearance 
flattery had lost all its freshness and sparkle—if, } of deeper interest than he really felt. He had 
indeed, any ray of intelligence had ever kindled noticed the studied, almost rude, neglect which 
into wit or wisdom with them. She almost knew } her devotees had assumed, and, with the gener- 
what each man was opening his lips to say, before } ous impulse which prompts a high-minded man 
a word was uttered. Still, this sort of homage } to offer help where it seems to be needed, came 
-ad its influence on her world-at-large, and the} forward in obedience to her signal, which was 
loss of it, even for one morning, disturbed her. {so slight that no one but himself observed it. 

At this critical moment, Mrs. Norris was } ‘‘What did the violets tell you, last night?” 
-making a slow promenade up and down the} she whispered. ‘You see, I have kept everyone 
veranda. away, in order to hear about it.” 

Always an imposing figure, in her heavy black | A serious, almost stern, look came into the 
silks and trailing jet fringe, she seemed more; young man’s face; he closed the fan abruptly, 
‘than usually majestic, that morning. Her fun, } and gave it back to her. ‘There are too many 
of black ostrich-plumes, was in constant motion 3 people about us, for an answer here,’’ he said; 
—now slowly wafting the air to ber own face, } ‘but you will give me an opportunity ?”’ 
now saluting someone in the crowd, and, again, ; A smile crept over the lady’s lips. ‘Oh, 
gathered up in her hand, as a queen carries a; yes,” she said; ‘you will drive with me, this 
sceptre. She paused a moment at the chair Mrs, } afternoon.” 

Hlumphrey Vose occupied, and addressed that; Dayton bowed. 
lady with a politeness so elaborate that it fell} That moment, Mrs. Brooks and Dorothea came 
upon the ear like fine irony. 3 through one of the sash-doors into the veranda, 

“‘Ah, this is a novelty,” she said; ‘one so ‘and halted there, surprised by his presence, and 
seldom finds you sufficiently disengaged to ex- ’ struck with sudden indignation. Neither of them 
change a quiet ‘ good-morning.’ What has hap- } could have told why, or in what way his move- 
pened, that I have this privilege now?” ments should have been a cause ef disturbance to 

Mrs. Humphrey Vose shot one quick glance } her. 
from under her drooping eyelashes, as she; Dayton did not observe them, after he had 
answered : surrendered the fan to its owner; he stood by 

«‘T beg ten thousand pardons, Mrs. Norris, for } her, while she opened and shut it half a dozen 
my forgetfulness of the homage due to your age, } times with a lithe movement of the wrist, taught 
yesterday. But one does make mistakes some- } her by some friendly Spanish dame. To one 
times, and fall short of the respect due to the acquainted with the childlike grace with which 
most venerable. That I, of all persons, should § these women move and speak, this performance 
have done this, grieves me beyond anything.” ; of our Saratoga belle might have been considered 

Nothing could have been more sweetly uttered } clumsily studied ; but, to the crewd, all that she 
than this ladylike apology, and nothing could ; did seemed perfect. At any rate, she was entirely 
have been more graciously received. satisfied with her own performance, and continued 

“Oh, if there was any omission in that ; it complacently, while a few young men, hitherto 
respect, I did not observe it,” said the old lady, { kept in the distance, gathered around her: men 
with a look in her eyes that glittered like steel. ; she would have preferred a thousand times to the 
“Age is a subject one forgives her best friend for ; members of the club, had any one of them 
forgetting. But I keep your friends from their counted for as much in her world. As it was, 
morning-devotion.” ; Mrs. Humphrey Vose left the veranda, that day, 

Mrs. Humphrey Vose leaned forward, and 3 with a weight upon her spirits. 
bent her head. Mrs. Norris walked on, with; Dayton did net see his friends from the country 
« grim smile on her lips. Chapperton joined } till after Mrs. Vose had left, in order to prepare 
her, and they conversed together in confidential | for her drive. Then he recognized them. 
undertones. Mrs. Vose settled back languidly } [To BE CONTINUED. ] 




No. 1—Is a costume of washing-material: } This model is very simple, easily made, and 
striped gingham, seersucker, or étamine. ‘The } requires no trimming, being composed entirely 
latter is a new fabric: looks like lace muslin, 3} of the material. The material is used crosswise 

for the three deep flounces which compose the 
entire skirt. These flounces may be either 
$ gathered or kilt-plaited; the latter is more 
elegant and stylish. The foundation-skirt, which 
is of the same material, is made lengthwise. 
The bodice, sleeves, and short flounce, which 
trims the edge of the pointed bodice, all length- 
wise of the material. The ribbons or sash, of the 


No. 1. 


No. 2.—Fronr. 

‘with embroidered pin-stripes; comes in écru, same, begin from the side-seams of the bodice. 

with brown; also écru, with brown and blue or} The back of the bodice may be finished in a 

red in the stripes, with embroidery to match. ‘ short point, to match the front, or a box-plaited 


~ OR nnn wwe ww - . - 

postillion. The collar is tied, to match the sash} No. 2.—We give the front and back view of 
at the waist. A tiny capote, of the material, § this costume. ‘I'he material used may be either 
completes this costume. Fifteen yards of thirty- ° figured or plain, and the model is suitable for 
‘ China silks, embroidered étamines—in fact, any 
‘ of the more dressy thin goods for summer-wear. 
¢ The skirt has a narrow knife-plaited ruffle as 
; edge : above which, on the front-breadth, are 
seven lace or embroidered flounces. Our model 
calls for torchon lace. ‘The overdrapery is a 
simple plain skirt all around, hemmed on the 
edge. It hangs straight on the left side. The 
right side is looped, as seen in the illustration, 

No. 2.—Back. 

inch goods will be required. This model will 
serve equally well for any of the light woolen 
textures—such as nun’s-veiling, albatross, crépe- 


No. 4 


which also shows, in the back-view, how it is 
§ plaited in at the waist. The bretelle-front of the 
{ bodice is made entirely of the lace, laid on flat, 
and adjusted to form a narrow point at the waist. 
Standing collar and cuffs, to match. Twelve to 
fifteen yards of material, thirty inches wide, and 
twelve yards of lace, will be required. 

No. 8.—This stylish and effective matinée is 
made of figured cashmere, or brocade in silk or 
cloth, ete.—but not for the rough goods. wool. It is lined with surah, and piped with 
must be made with plain skirts and long} satin, as a finish to the edge. The side-seams 
clinging drapery. ‘are left open from a little below the waist-line. 



perro rrr 



} No. 7—Is a new bodice for spring and summer 
A jahot of soft lace finishes the front and edge ; wear, made of light-weight lady’s-cloth. Our 
of cuffs. ; 

No 4.—Blouse-costume, of navy-blue eset 
for a little girl of four years. The skirt is laid 
in deep box-plaits; and, between each plait, 
rows of narrow cream-white worsted braid are 
arranged. The blouse is of cream-white tennis- 
flannel. Vest, turnover collar, and cuffs of the 
navy-blue, trimmed with the narrow braid match- 
ing the skirt. The blouse has an elastic run in 
the tuck at- the edge, which holds it in place 
at the waist. A bow of blue ribbon ties the 
blouse at the point of the collar. 

A rolling collar of velvet; cuffs and pockets. 


No. 6. 

¢model is of crimson cloth, braided with black 
¢ worsted braid, in military style, as seen in the 

No. 5.—For a girl of eight years or so, we} 
have a walking-costume of mixed light summer } 
woolens. Our model is of bronze-green. The skirt 
is kilt-plaited or plain, as the taste may decide. 
The long jacket-bodice is simply trimmed with } 
one row of olive-wood beads; the collar, cuffs, § 
and pockets likewise. Waistcoat of écru Pi 
broidery. ; 
No. 6.—For a boy of seven to eight years. ' 
Knickerbocker trousers and a_ blouse -jacket, } 
belted at the waist. To be made of navy-blue 
flannel, stitched or braided on collar, cuffs, and i illustration. The bodice has a postillion-back. 
edge of blouse. { The braid is put on the sleeves to simulate a 

eee nme wees Se re rr rrr We mA 




deep ot. High standing odie, tenided ‘to > Mrs. M, A. Jones, 28 South Eighth Street, Philadelphia, 
match. g will send, by mail, the pattern for any costume - this 
¢ number, or any other costume, on receipt of price. hese 
These stylish red jackets, will be extremely 2 patterns will be such as can ’be used, ae oe not mere 
fashionable for mountain and seaside wear, for “catch-penny” affairs. For full particulars of prices for 
: a them — polonaises, skirts, waists, etc., etc., and also for 

cool mornings and for driving. > children’s dresses—see May number, page 456, etc., etc. 




It is the purpose of this department, as all our 
old subscribers know, to give the latest fashion 
of its kind: a polonaise, jacket, mantle, waist, 
cloak, or some other article of dress. Whoever 
takes ‘‘ Peterson,’ therefore, will be sure to get, 
every month, not only a score of costumes to 
select from, but also the very latest and most 
stylish article out, with a dress-pattern of it: 
which, if made up, will put the wearer ahead of 
all others in fashion. 

For this month, we give a Girl's Polonaise. ; 
he engraving annexed shows how this polonaise 
looks when made up. Folded in with the number > 
is a SupPLEMENT, with full-size diagrams, from } 
which to cut out the dress-patterns. “As we? 
have said often before, the best way is to cut? 
out these patterns in paper, and fit them to the ? ih. 2 saul 
one who is to wear the polonaise, altering where ; Tah 
necessary: and not until then to cut into the} 
iaterial. In this way, all possibility of making } i il i 
a mistake as to fit is avoided. Our pattern is} f 
both new and pretty, and is for a girl of ten } 
years. ‘The pattern is composed of five pieces: 

1. One Front. 

2. Har or Back. 

8. Panzer ror Front or Bopice. 
4and 5. Upper anp Unper or SLEEVE. 

The notches and letters show how the pieces ; 
are joined. The panier must be draped beneath } 
the sash in front and on the hip. The back is > 
Princess, and plaited from the neck. A similar ; 
piece is added in front, should fullness be pre- - 

There are several ways of tracing these pat-: 
terns. ‘The quickest, however, is to use a} 
tracing-wheel. We will send such a tracing: § 
wheel, by mail, when requested, for fifteen } 
cents. This offer is confined to subscribers,; We give, also, on the SupPLEMENT, some new 
however, as it is for their. convenience we make } and beautiful designs in embroidery, for which 

, and theirs only. ; see description elsewhere. 



In the front of the number, we give two : Very frequently, the maids you employ use the 
outline-designs for marking dusters or towels. } materials which are supplied to them for clean- 

oe re en eee ~ oe err new ores PDL PL II enn te 


nes eee eee eee 

ing-purposes indiscriminately for plate, crockery, } outline-figures suggestive of the intended pur- 
and glass, as well as for lamps, furniture, and ; pose, as indicated in our wood-cuts. A clever 
nicknacks, and very often to the detriment of } pen can draw them on the material with marking- 
one or the other article in question. Now, this’ ink, or work them with fast-colored cotton in: 
can, in a measure, be prevented and controlled ; cross or stem stitch. We give four of these 
by marking the various dusters and towels with } designs. 



These designs are worked on stout linen with {in point-russe. In No. 2, the lattice-lines are 
purse-silk, gold thread, and crewel-wool. In } worked with olive-colored and the squares with 
No. 1, the rows of squares are done in satin- reddish-brown crewel, traversed with gold thread, 
stitch, with alternate dark and light blue purse- / as seen in the illustration. Either of these pat- 
silk, while the stars are put in with gold thread ‘ terns, when completed, will make a pretty slipper. 



Table-napkins, tray-cloths, and an endless } same as crewel-stitch, used for stems: a rather 
array of minor articles, supply material for the ; long stitch on the right side of the work, anda 
taste and ingenuity of the worker. Every lady} short back-stitch behind. The stitches must 
knows the texture and pattern of huckaback, 3 slant in the direction of the line to be followed, 
with its little dice of silky threads all running } If this line bear to the right, the needle must be 
lengthwise of the material. ‘Toilet-towels are? brought up to the left of the thread; but, if the 
wonderfully improved by a strip of embroidery } line bear to the left, it must be the reverse. 

We give, in front of the number, two very } spot at the end, ina brown shade of the same. 
beautiful designs for these purposes, marked } A few circular stitches may be put in to shade 
Nos. 1 and 2. We will suppose No. 1 to be} them; or, if liked, the whole fruit can be filled 
chosen first. Now, to work this, you must trace } in with a sort of network formed by long threads 
the pattern on your material, at a little distance } drawn across diagonally, so as to form diamonds. 
from each end. The leaves and centre vein can Where these threads cross each other, a stitch 
be worked in green washing-silk, in outline-stitch. should catch them down to the material. This 


of such. The fruit may be outlined in orange, with the 

This stitch we described in eur January number, } stitch is often used, more or less open, to fill up a 
on page 93, but will say here that it is much the ‘ space which would ke too white if left blank, such 




xy PREG EES A OO ene eer ee reo 
as the calyx of a flower, or a large bud, or as in} and flowers must be filled in. At the margin 
the present instance. The flowers may be out- ; where the gold line is made, the silk used for 
lined like the rest, in blush-pink, with a deeper ? darning must be carried to the back, and brought 
spot in the centre; or they would look even pret- } up to the front at the next row of dice; and, in 
tier filled in, either with crewel-stitch or satin- } the same way, wherever the pattern intercepts 
stitch, in white silk tipped with pink. The the straight lines of darning. A piece of toilet- 
flower-stalks, of course, must be of delicate green. fringe makes a pretty finish to the towel. 
The larger stems are of olive-green or russet-brown ; In a similar way, do Fig. 2; and the pattern 
—or, indeed, the two shaded into each other. } looks well as a border to an apron, put on as an 
When the pattern is all worked, the darning of } insertion. Very little need be said as to the 
the foundation is commenced. This is done as a} colors required for this pattern, as they are 
grounding, and brings out the pattern well. so well known. We are all familiar with the 
First decide on the width you wish the em- } holly-wreath of dark-green shiny leaves and its 
broidered band to extend, and make a line of} bright scarlet berries. With very little trouble, 
outline-stitch, say in gold-colored silk, which is} the straightness of the above pattern may be 
to form the limit of the darning. Now, with a } turned into a circle for a set of d’oyleys or toilet- 
pretty shade of pale-blue, draw up the silk from } cushion, or into a large square for a toilet-cover. 
the back, and pick up the threads which form } The berries would look best done in satin-stitch, 
the dice of the huckaback, lifting all in one row, ; not in outline; but the little black spot in each 
and covering back on the next row. In this ‘ berry must not be forgotten, which might be a 
manner, all the interstices between the leaves : single cross-stitch. 



This bag, which is called Joan of Arc, is made } 
of rich brocade, woven with the figure; but any } 
handsome brocade with a figure, or a bunch of} 
flowers on a plain satin, surah, or plush back- } 
ground, will make an effective bag for either } 
bonbons or fancy-work. The illustration shows 
how the bag is made. 



In the front of the number, we give a design { cover, nothing can be prettier or more suitable. 
for strawberries and leaves, colored, for a side-} Fringe the ends of the cover, leaving a quarter 
board cover or side-table scarf. This beautiful } of a yard at each end for the fringe, which should 
design is done in Kensington-stitch, and may } be knotted five or six rows deep. Two shades 
either be worked in English wash-crewels or of strawberry-red for the fruit; two shades of 
wash-silks. Use butcher’s-linen or fine crash for } green, either olive or blue green; or make some 
the material to work on. The design may be} of the leaves and stems of one color, some of the 
arranged as a border for each end, or it may be} other. Small French knots, or pointed stitches 

sprinkled all over, as given. For a side-board } of dark-green, for the dots in the fruit. 

—__ A a 



We gixye, on the Suprrement, this month, in} 2.—Cat1a-Lity, also to be worked in Kensing- 
addition to the dress-pattern for a girl’s polo-{ ton or outline stitch, and available, like No. 1, 
naise, two new and very tasteful designs in : for almost any purpose. 

embroidery : § These, with our colored pattern, make “ Peter- 

1.—SrrRaAWBERRIES, FroweRs AND LEAvEs, to; son,’ for this month, particularly desirable, in 
be done in Kensington or outline stitch: a design ; the way of embroidery-designs: as usual, ahead 
suitable for many purposes. ‘ of all others. 





This design may be used for a variety of pur-; It would be a pretty thing for flannel. A row of 
poses, according to the taste of the embroiderer. { them would make a nice border for a petticoat. 



Att Asout Rivine-Hasits.—A subscriber asks us for 
some hints as to riding-habits: how they ought to be made; 
of what material, etc. In reply, we give, in the front of ; 
the number, an engraving of the latest fashion in riding- : 
habits, and add here some general remarks in addition: 3 

Riding-habits, in the first place, are now made short, and 3 
as tight-fitting as possible. The habit, on the left side, is ; 
made so short, in fact, as to show the foot, in walking; but 
it is cut longer, with gores, on the right side. It is quite ° 
impossible to describe this dress accurately. There is a 
place shaped to fit over the pommel and over the right ? 
knee, which makes the habit almost a hideous dress, when § 
off the horse; but, when the wearer is mounted, the affair 
has quite another aspect. Then the short left side of the } 
skirt falls far enough to cover the stirrup-foot. The right : 
side, which is longer and is taken up by the seat on the 
saddle, has the appearance of being straight all around. ; 
There must not be a plait or fold below the waist. The : 
habit must be cut to fit the figure perfectly, and must fall ¢ 
without any fullness. 

The bodice is also close-fitting, but must not be made too 
tight, as anything which prevents freedom of motion on 
the horse is destructive of all grace in the rider. The 
bodice is buttoned straight down, from the throat to the > 
waist. The sleeves are put in comfortably, but without ° 
any fullness in the armhole. They reach to the wrist, and $ 
are buttoned on the outside with three small buttons. 
A rather short postillion-basque is formed behind. From $ 
this basque at the back, to the buttons in front, a small 
basque, of an inch or so deep, finishes the bodice below 
the waist. Nota particle of ornament of any kind ought to 
mar a well-fitting bodice. Nothing but machine-stitching 
is used, one row near the edge of the inch basque; } 
nothing else is allowable. Even a bouquet on the corsage, } 
as seen in our engraving, is not always worn now. A > 
narrow white collar and cuffs are all. Englishwomen and 
well-taught Americans are the best riders in the world, ° 
and any ornament on a riding-habit is looked upon as in ¢ 
the worst possible taste by these ladies. 

For very warm weather, a habit may be cut to open a ° 
couple of inches in front, to show a plain linen chemisette, 5 
because it is cooler than with the bodice buttoned up to 3 
the throat. Years ago, when riding-habits were worn 
much longer and fuller, a thin cloth or heavy merino was ; 
the usual wear; but, now that they are so close-fitting, 
a Melton or some other heavy cloth must necessarily be 
worn: for, with the skirt stretched so tightly over the $ 
pommel, the thinner material would be in holes, after 
a very few rides; moreover, it would not hang well. It is ; 
probably a matter of custom; but, whereas the theory used ; 
to be that the long flowing skirt and waving plumes were } 
very graceful, they had not the dignity and fittingness, we § 
think, that the close short habit has, and were, moreover, $ 
much more dangerous, as the unnecessary length and $ 
width of skirt made the chances of catching it so much 
more numerous. A straight high hat, like a man’s—a > 
stovepipe hat—or a round-crowned Derby hat, is always 
worn with the present habit. The veil, if one be worn, 
ought to have no flying ends; no flopping curls or ends : 
of ribbon ought to be seen; and the whole appearance ought } 
to be very quiet and business-like. 

Of *n(Bd4) country-places, where long distances have ‘ 

¢ found as high as one hundred and thirty degrees, 
this test was made, a thermometer in the shade of a tree 
§ near by recorded only seventy degrees, 

> of a table-cloth. 

2 in the hands of these publishers, 

§ Providence. 

to be made on horseback, especially in hot weather, the 
stovepipe or Derby hat can be comfortably exchanged for 
a straw, which will shade the face, and the habit may have 
more scope as to width, and be made of a lighter material. 
But the present fashion for stylish horsewomen is that 
which we have engraved and described, and it ought to be 
followed as much as possible by those who wish to be 

PLanT SHADE-TrREEs.—Even in cities, according to an 

> eminent authority, Dr. Stephen Smith, shade-trees are 

conducive to health. He fortifies his position by an 
analysis of mortality-reports. Dr. Smith says an acre of 
grass gives the air six thousand four hundred quarts of 
moisture in twentyfour hours, but trees are even Letter 
coolers, The old Washington elm at Cambridge, although 
not very large, exposes to the air a surface in leaves equal 
to five acres of vegetation. ‘Trees keep an even tempera- 
ture of about fiftyfive degrees, while the temperature of an 
exposed pavement on Fifth Avenue on a hot day has been 

Farn A Free Cory of this magazine, by getting up a 
club. In addition to the clubs of this kind mentioned in 
the Prospectus (for which see second page of cover), we will 
send a free copy to anyone getting up a club of two at $2.00 
each (or $4.00 in all), or a club of three at $1.75 each ($5.25 

3 in all). On the whole, a free copy for getting up a club 

is, perhaps, the most desirable premium; for it keeps 

> coming every month during the whole year. 

Our BEavuTIFUL CoLORED PatTEeRNs.—Last month, we 

; gave a colored pattern, a design for “ Daisies,” for the end 

This month, we give one even more beau- 
tiful, in “Strawberries and Strawberry-Leaves.” These 
designs in “ Peterson” are original ones, by pupils of the 

§ “Art School,” and are a feature peculiar to it, no other 
> lady’s-book having them. 

Tue Easter-Carps of L. Prang & Co., though reaching 

’ us too late to be noticed in season, were even more beautiful 

than ever. Itisexceedingly gratifying to us, as Americans, 

§ to see how designing and lithographing have improved 

Whatever they print is 
artistically conceived and faithfully executed. 

Bopices ARE Setpom Mane perfectly plain now; but the 
plain ones are, by some persons, considered the more stylish, 
as the more u All depends upon the figure. 
Vests, chemisettes, plastrons are all equally worn, the style 
depending entirely on the fancy of the wearer. 

Frowers ARE Mucn Wory, this season, on bonnets and 
hats, as well as coquilles of black lace, red crépe, or net, 

> jetted birds, wings, large butterflies, etc. 

Just Do Your Dury, day by day, and leave the rest to 
The All-Wise Ruler knows what is best for 



Ir Is Never Too Late To Get Up Civss for this maga- } wife, 
zine, or to subscribe for a single copy. Now is a good time } made 

to subscribe, especially for those who de not wish back 
numbers, as a new volume begins with the July number, 
But back numbers can always be had, when persons prefer 
to begin with January. No magazine offers such fine 
premiums for getting up clubs. For example: 

Three copies for $4.50, with the large engraving, “Angel 
of Paradise,” or “ Forget-Me-Not” Album, for premium. 

Four copies for $6.50, with an extra copy of the magazine 
for one year for premium. 

Five copies for $8.00, with both an extra copy of the 
magazine for one year for premium, and either “The 
Angel of Paradise” or “Forget-Me-Not” in addition. 

But see the Prospectus on the second page of cover. 
Specimens sent gratis, if written fer in good faith, by those 
wishing to subscribe, or get up clubs. 

Our STEeEL-ENGRAVING, this month, is after an original 
picture in the last Paris salon, by the famous artist— 
Schneider, Compare steel-plates like this, such as “ Peter- 
son” gives, with the so-called ones that appear in other 
lady’s-books, but which, instead of being real steel-engrav- 
ings, printed from the steel, like ours, are either half-illegible 
litho-photographs, or mere lithographs. 

AppiTions May Be Mape To a Cuvs at the price paid 
by the rest of the club; and, when enough additional 
names have been sent, the sender will be entitled to 
another premium or premiums. The additions may be 
made at any time, all through the year. 

general rule, socially, than either beauty, intellect, or even 
accomplishments. Persons with such a manner are always 
popular—nay, loved. 

Back Numpers Can Atways Bre Hap by writing to us, 
and enclosing eighteen cents a number. So, if your news- 
agent says he can’t supply you, write to us at once. 

Has THe WHEEL oF Fortune gone around for you 
lately? Remember, it is revolving all the time, and will 
be uppermost for you in turn. 

Wraps are Very Suort at the back, to fall properly over 
the teurnure, and often have long ends in front. 


Life of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. By his brother, Rev. 
Samuel Longfellow. 2 vols.,12mo. Boston: Ticknor & Co.— 
These are two very elegant volumes, beautifully printed 
and bound. They are illustrated with fine steel-plate 
portraits and numerous wood-engravings and fac-similes. 
The work ought to have a large sale, for the admirers 
ef Longfellow are countless, and the life is told in a man- 
ner to make one love and respect the poet even more than 
ever. It always struck us how reticent Longfellow was, 
at least in regard to the deeper passions; he nowhere 
shows the egotism, not to say fire, of Burns or Byron; and 
we used to ask ourselves whether he really was incapable 
of profound feeling. That question is answered, once for 
all, in the volumes before us. It was not because Long- 
fellow was insensible to the deeper passions, that he 
avoided them in his verse: it was because he considered the 
warmer emotions too sacred for display. This comes out 
prominently in that saddest of tragedies, the loss of his 




NEW 545 
who was accidentally burned to death. The event 
such an impression on the poet, that, for five 
‘ years afterward, he did not write a line: he suffered in 
} silence. Yet he suffered not the less—suffered intensely. 
; One day, when a visitor said: “I hope you will bear your 
$ cross with patience,” he replied: “Bear the cross? Yes: 
$ but what if one is stretched upon it?” 

Eighteen years 
after his wife’s death, he was looking over an illustrated 
volume of Western scenery, when his attention was arrested 
by a picture of a mountain, whose snow-covered side was 
furrowed by ravines, in such a way as to give the image of 
a gigantic cross. The picture impressed him so powerfully, 
that he wrote the following verses, which he put away in 
his portfolio, no one knowing of their existence until his 
death. They appear, for the first time, in the volumes 
$ before us, ? 

“In the long, sleepless watches of the night, 

A gentle face—the face of one long dead— 

Looks at me from the wall, where round its head 

The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light. 

Here in this room she died, and soul more white 

Never through martyrdom of fire was led 

To its repose; nor can in books be read 

The legend of a life more benedight. 

There is a mountain in the distant West 

That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines 

Displays a cross of snow upon its side. 

Such is the cross I wear upon my breast 

These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes 

And seasons, changeless since the day she died.” 

Victor Hugo. By A. C. Swinburne. 1 vol., 12mo. New 
York: Worthington Co.— This is a criticism—or, rather, 
a eulogium—on Victor Hugo, the great French poet. It is 
full of acute analysis, and, thongh sometimes turgid in 
style, at other times rises to great eloquence. We hardly 
think, however, that posterity will accept Mr. Swinburne’s 
estimate in its entirety. Victor Hugo was a very great 
2 poet, but hardly the equal of Dante, Homer, and Shakes- 
peare: and this is where his admirer places him. The 
volume is very beautifully printed. 

Hap-hazard Personalities, Chiefly of Noted Americans. By 
Charles Lauman, 1 vol., 12mo, Boston: Lee & Shepard.— 
Mr. Lauman’s long experience as a newspaper-man, author, 
and artist, gave him exceptional facilities for making the 
acquaintance of eminent men—literary, political, and 
scientific—Irving, Longfellow, Henry Clay, Joseph Henry, 
etc., etc. The present volume is the result. It is full of 
entertaining anecdote. We recommend it as one of the 
most readable books of the season. 

Salammbo. By Gustave Flaubert. 1 vol., 12mo, London 
and New York: Saxon & Co.—Of all Flaubert’s fictions, this 
is the most celebrated. The scene is laid in Carthage, in 
the time of Hamilcar, the father of Hannibal. Apart from 
its merit as a story, it has much value as a picture of the 
age; for its descriptions of the great Phoenician city, and 
of the manners and customs of its inhabitants, are as 
faithful as they are vivid. The translation is by Mr. 
French Sheldon. 

A Mental Struggle. By “The Duchess.” 1 vol., 12mo. 
Philadeiphia: J. B. Lippincott Company.—This anonymous 
novelist continues to be one of the most popular of cotem- 
porary ones. Her present story has even more than her 
usual vivacity. It is this increase in power, when others 
generally are falling off, that is the secret of her success. 

Young People’s History of Englund. By George Make- 
peace Towle. 1 vol.,12mo, Boston: Lee & Shepard.—A clear 
and concise history of England, from the Roman conquest 
down: just what it pretends to be, a narrative for begin- 
ners, and, in its way, it is unrivaled. 

My Son’s Wife. By the author of “Caste.” 1 vol., 12mo. 
) Philudelphia: T. B. Peterson & Brothers—A new edition of 
one of the most popular fictions of the day. 
laid in England, and is full of incident. 
are admirably defined also. 




The story is 

The characters 



What Epitors Say or “ Prtrerson.”—Of all persons, 
editors—who see all the magazines, and can thus compare 
one with the other—are the best judges of any one maga- 
zine. Now, editors everywhere praise “ Peterson.” 
the Hardley (Pa.) Broad-Axe: “The last number is superb. 
It is really astonishing to one who has watched the make-up 
of this magazine for twentyfive years—nay, for more than 
forty years—to understand how it is possible to improve 
the whole artistic work, yet such is the fact. It is not 
a mere idle say-so, when we repeat that ‘ Peterson,’ unlike 

all others, does really progress, and grows better and } 

brighter yearly.” The Lancaster (Pa.) New Era says: 
“None of our monthlies retains a stronger hold on the 
public than ‘Peterson.’ Devoted to all that pertains to 
taste in dress and culture, it fills a place reached by none 
of its cotemporaries. Its illustrations are always good, and 
generous in point of numbers, and accepted as authority on 
points of taste. There can be no better periodical for the 
household, Its stories are always first-class,”” The Laurens 
(S. C.) Herald says: “It is brimful of useful, suggestive, 
and entertaining matter. The new spring styles and colors 
in dresses are shown in the double colored fashion-plate 
and the numerous fashion and fancy-work engravings. 
The stecl-engraving is a fine work of art, and the stories 
and poems are full of interest.” The Scranton (Dakota) 
Pioneer says: “As usual, ahead of all its competitors, The 
fashion-plate will cause a flutter of admiration in all who 
behold it. The stories, all original, are better ‘than usual, 
‘The Millionaire’s Daughter,’ by Mrs. Ann 8. Stephens, 
grows in interest and force.” If we had space, we could 
give pages of such notices, Now is a good time to subscribe 
or to get upaclub. If every subscriber would get another, 
our present large list would be doubled. You can safely 
tell your friends that there is nothing bogus about “ Peter- 
son.” Everything is the best of its kind. What it promises, 
too, it fulfils, Send that other subscriber! 

Pastry Witnovut Butter.—The American pie has been 
subjected to more unjust abuse from foreign writers than 
any other of our distinctive products, if we except the 
recent tirade against the American hog. And yet, we 
cannot say that it has been altogether undeserved, because 
of the villainous compound—thick, hard, and heavy—that 
is too often made to do duty as a “crust,” and which, by 
courtesy, is called “pastry.” Light, tender, flaky, and 
digestible pie-crust, and all kinds of pastry, can be made 
most readily by the use of Royal Baking-Powder, without 
any butter; or with half the usual portion, if preferred; or 
with a small quantity of lard or other shortening, as desired. 
Pie-crust thus made is much mure wholesome and digest- 
ible, besides being more economical and easier prepared. 
In addition to saving all the butter, if desired, one-third 
the flour is also dispensed with, as the crust is rolled that 
much thinner, the leavening-qualities of the Royal Baking- 
Powder swelling it to the requisite thickness, If dripping 
or lard be used, the Royal Baking-Powder removes any 
unpleasant taste, rendering the crust as short, sweet, and 
pleasant as if made from the finest butter. Those who 
know the appetizing-qualities of the genuine home-made 
American pie will rejoice that, by the aid of Royal Baking- 
Powder in the pastry, it can be-made quite as digestible 
as it is delicious. 


Sap Every Receipt in this Cook-Book has been tested by a 
practical housekeeper. 


Asparagus Soup.—Take twentyfive heads of asparagus, 
put them in a saucepan with one quart of vegetable-stock ; 

Says } 


let them boil till done; remove the asparagus, pound it in 
}@ mortar, then pass it through a sieve; mix one table- 
spoonful of flour and one ounce of butter in a saucepan on 
the fire, add a little sugar, pepper and salt, the asparagus- 
pulp, and the stock in which the asparagus was originally 
, boiled} let the whole come to the boil, put in a little 
spinach-greening, and lastly a pat of fresh butter, 
over small dice of bread fried in butter, 
White Soup, Without Meat —Put two quarts of water into 
} a clean saucepan, the crumb of a small baker’s-loaf, a 
} bunch of sweet herbs, some whole grains of pepper, two 


) or three cloves, an onion chopped fine, and a little salt. 
Let it boil half an hour, Then take the white parts of 
celery, endive, and lettuce, cut them into pieces, boil them 
in the soup till quite smooth. Strain the soup, set it over 
the fire again, and, when it begins to boil, add a lump of 
butter rolled in a little flour; let it boil a few minutes 
more, and serve. 

Minced Veal.—This is one of the most agreeable, simple, 
inexpensive, and wholesome of made dishes. The meat 
from any joint of veal is available, and every part may be 
used, some people not even objecting to a little fat. it 
must all be cnt away from the bones and nicely minced. 
The brown outside, the gristle, and the bones (broken up), 
must be boiled into a gravy, with a little salt, pepper, and 
a blade of mace; then strained off, and, with the minced 
meat, put into a stewpan with a teaspoonful of grated 
lemon-peel, the same quantity of lemon-juice, a table- 
spoonful of cream, and a piece of butter blended with flour. 
As soon as perfectly hot through, the mince ought to be 
poured out upon the dish, lined with toast. 

Sheep's Head.—Steep the head for two or three hours, 
then split it, take out the brains and tongue, boil the head 
gently for three hours with a few carrots, onions, a stick of 
celery, a bundle of sweet herbs, a few cloves, whole pepper 
and salt to taste, then breadcrumb, and brown the head 
slightly in front of the fire. Mince the lights, cut the 
liver in slices, and fry them; boil the brains in a piece of 
muslin. In dishing up, put the mince on a dish, then the 
head opened out, the tongue cut into slices, the brains 
divided into four, and the slices of liver ranged artistically 
all round. Judicious seasoning is essential. 

Fowls, no matter how small—excepting, perhaps, spring 
chickens—ought to be always stuffed before cooking; nor 
is there any trouble, if breadcrumb and picked thyme are 
kept, as they ought to be, at hand, nicely preserved in wide- 
mouthed bottles, and stowed away in a dry place. 

Apple Fritters—Make a batter, not very stiff, with one 
pint of milk, two eggs, and flour to bring it to a right 
consistence. Pare and core six apples (large ones), chop 
them small, and mix them well in the batter, Fry in lard, 
and serve with powdered sugar sifted over them. 

Cold Potatoes and Beef.—Slice the beef aud potatoes; put 
an onion to a good gravy, either from the joint, or stewed 
from the bones; let the potatoes and beef simmer in the 
gravy. Add vinegar, pepper, and salt. Thicken the gravy, 
and serve hot, with slices of toasted bread. 

Plain White Sauce——Melt a piece of butter in a saucepan, 
add a tablespoonful of flour, pepper and salt to taste; mix 
well, then add milk, and keep on stirring until the sauce 
acquires the desired consistency. 


New Carrots with Cream.—Trim a quantity of the smallest 
new carrots that can be obtained, and boil them in salted 
water. When done, drain off the water. Melt one ounce 
of butter in a saucepan, add to it a dessertspoonful of 
flour, pepper, salt, grated nutmeg, a pinch of powdered 
sugar, and a small quantity of cream. Put in the carrots, 
simmer gently a few minutes, and serve. 

Carrots, Mattre d Hotel.—Take some new carrots, and trim 
) each neatly; boil them in salted water till they are just 


ntiinininitninPia RPE PPLE LP PL DPD PPP DP 



done, then drain off the water; add a piece of fresh butter § 
to the carrots, some parsley finely minced, a dust of pow- 
dered pepper, a little powdered loaf-sugar, and a squeeze 3 
of lemon. Give the saucepan a toss or two on the fire, and 
keep the contents hot till the time of serving. 

Potatoes @ la Lyonnaise.—Slice an onion finely, and fry it 
in butter until it begins to take color; add four or five cold 
boiled potatoes, cut in slices three-eighths of an inch thick, 
salt and pepper to taste, and keep shaking the saucepan 
till they are quite hot, and also begin to brown. Beef: } 
dripping, if properly clarified, may be used instead of 3 

Tomatoes with Cream Gravy.—Cut the tomatoes in half, 
and season them with pepper and salt; then fry them in 
fresh lard. When they are brown on both sides, add some 
butter and cream; thicken the gravy with butter and 
flour, mixed as for drawn butter. Tomatoes prepared in 
this way make a very palatable breakfast and tea relish. 

French Beans au Beurre.—String some young French 
beans, but do not cut them. Boil them in plenty of water, 
salted to taste. When done thoroughly, drain them, and 
toss them in a saucepan with a large piece of butter; add 
a sprinkling of pepper and a squeeze of lemon, and serve. 


Cheesecake.—Use rennet, or make a curd as follows: One 
quart of water; two eggs; one quart of new milk; two 
spoonfuls of lemon-juice or good vinegar. Boil the water 
inastewpan. Beat two eggs, and mix them with a quart 
of new milk; add them to the water, with two spoonfuls of 
lemon-juice or good vinegar. When the curd rises, lay it 
on a sieve to drain. Cheesecake —Half a pint of good 
curd; four eggs; three spoonfuls of rich cream; a quarter 
of a nutmeg; one spoonful of ratafia; a quarter of a 
pound of currants; puff-paste. Beat half a pint of good 
curd with four eggs, three spoonfuls of rich cream, a 
quarter of a nutmeg grated, a spoonful of ratafia, and a 
quarter of a pound of currants washed and dried, Mix 
all well together, and bake in patty-pans lined with a 
good puff-paste. 

Whipped Cream.—Sweeten half a pint of cream with 
some loaf-sugar which has been well rubbed on the outside 
of a lemon and then pounded, Put it into a perfectly clean 
cold bowl, and add to it the beaten-up white of an egg. 
Take a perfectly clean cold whisk, and whip the cream to a 
stiff froth in a very cold place, or over ice. 


Rice Griddle-Cakes.—One pint and a half of cold boiled 
rice; put to soak an hour in warm water enough to cover } 
it. Mash the rice well, and make a batter, just before } 
using it, with one quart of sour milk, one light quart of } 
flour, sult to taste, and two eggs well beaten. The batter >} 
ought to be moderately thick, Stir in a teaspeonful of soda 
just before frying. Fine batter-cakes may be made of stale 
light bread; trim off the crust, souk the bread, and make >} 
it by the above recipe. Sour bread may be used to advan- } 
tage this way. 

Wheat-Flour Batler-Cakes—One quart-measure of flour, 
three parts full, three tablespoonfuls of sifted corn-meal, 
two or three eggs beaten separately; make a moderately 
stiff batter with sweet milk, two teaspoonfuls of soda } 
sifted with the flour and meal, one teaspoonful of tartaric } 
acid dissolved in water, or a heaped dessertspoonful of yeast- 5 
powder; stir the soda in just before frying; never stir it 
after it effervesces, Good cakes may be made by this $ 
recipe, substituting sour milk for the acid, 


Strawberry Jelly—Stem the strawberries, put them in a 
pan, and, with a woeden spoon or potato-masher, rub 
them fine. Put a sieve over a pan, and, inside of the sieve, 
spread a piece of thin muslin; strain the juice through 
this, and to a pint add one pound of sugar, with a quayter 
of an ounce of isinglass, dissolved in water, to every five 





RAR arn enw 




pounds of sugar. When the sugar is dissolved, set the 
kettle over the fire, and boil it to a jelly. Pour it into 
glasses while it is warm, and paste them when cold, 

Rhubarb Jam.—Wipe, peel, and cut up the rhubarb; 
allow equal weight of rhubarb and sugar, aud two ounces 
of sweet almonds blanched and cut into quarters, and the 
juice aud rind of two lemons, to every six pounds of 
rhubarb. Boil the rhubarb with a little filtered water 
until tender; add the sugar, lemons, and almonds; and 
boil, skim, and stir well, fur three-quarters of an hour. 

To Ice Currants—ake some fresh currants in bunches, 
and have ready some white of egg, well beaten; dip them 
in, lay them on a board, sift double-refined sugar over 
them thickly, and dry in a stove or oven. 


Whitening Flannels and Washing Linens.—To whiten flannel 
made yellow by age, dissolve one and a half pounds of white 
soap in about twelve gallons of soft water, and also two- 
thirds of an ounce of spiritsof ammonia. Put in the flannel, 
stir well round for a short time, and wash in simple water. 
When black or navy-blue linens are washed, soap should not 
be used, ‘lake, instead, two potatoes grated into tepid soit 
water, after having them washed and peeled, into which a 
teaspoonful of ammonia has been put. Wash the linens 
with this, and rinse them in cold blue-water. They will 
need no starch, and should be dried and ironed on the 
wrong side, An infusion of hay will keep the natural 
color in buff linens, and an infusion of bran will do the 
same tor brown linens and prints. 


Ciovps Oveur To Be Knirrep, we would inform our fair 
correspondent Julia, with double Berlin-wool for the thick, 
and Shetland-wool for thin part. Thick wooden needles; 
the thicker the needles, the more effective the work, Sct 
up seventyfive stitches in double Berlin; knit four rower, 
as you would a garter; then join the Shetland wool— 
without breaking off the Berlin, which ought to be carried 
along—and knit two rows, as a garter; then four rows of 
the Berlin-wool, and so on, knitting alternately thick and 
thin, backward and forward, until your cloud is long 
enough, always carrying the wool from one stripe to the 
other along the side. Of course, each row ought to begin 
at the same side: be careful about that. Thirtyfive stripes 
of the Berlin and thirtyfour of the Shetland wool make 
a very nice-sized cloud, It is prettier drawn in at each 
end with a tassel made of the Berlin-wool, by rolling it 
thirtyfive times round a card any depth you choose, and 
drawing it in at the end, rolling the wool round to confine 

it, and then cutting it. 

A Baa Tike A Batt can be made by cutting light pieces 
of crinoline wire, twentythree inches long, joining them 
together in circles, and binding them together, top and bot- 
tom, in the shape of a ball, leaving even distances,between 

every wire, This will form a wire ball, as large as un 
ordinary-sized football. Cut sixteen pieces of brown holland, 
the size and shape of the spaces between the wires, but a 
little larger. Stitch all these sections together, leaving one 
seam undone, for the opening; turn the right side out, 
and bind the two edges with ribbon or tape, and put on 
three buttons and loops; now put the holland case over 
the wire ball, making the opening come between two of 
the wires. To keep the case in its place, it must be 
fastened here and there to the wire; finish by sewing on 
a loop of ribbon, to form the handle. This bag is greatly 
improved in appearance if a small wreath of flowers be 
worked down the centre of each section of holland; or it 
can be painted like a terrestrial globe. 


~~ AR 


“ Necessary 10 My Happiyess.”—A lady, sending a club, 
writes as follows: “I thought I would try to do without 
* Peterson,’ this year, for money is very scarce in Kansas, 
Bat I cannot. 1 have taken it continuously since 1875, and 
it is really necessary to my happiness.” That is just the 
point, In no way can so little money be spent which will 

It cheers lonely hours; brings the great world before one 
in fiction; instructs, amuses, refines, and teaches how to 
«lress economically yet elegantly. Men, even when com- 

scribe for a magazine. 


- - ON NN ree ore 

ene See 

PainTING ON Doors has become such a general practice, 
that a few words on the subject will perhaps be an advan- 

$ tage to amateurs interested in this branch of work. It 
¢ must be conceded that it is an occupation in every way 

} suitable to women of refinement and education. 


’ are usually painted with oil-cclors. Common house-paint 
bring so much happiness as by subscribing for “ Peterson.” ¢ 

makes a good ground to work on. Supposing the door to 

‘be a pale sea-green, salmon-pink, or the fashionable cream- 
, White, a branch of an apple-tree, with the pinkish-white 
’ blossom in full bloom, makes a charming design for the 
plaining of “hard times,” will spend dollars and dollars § 
on cigars, yet grudge a small sum to their wives to sub- | 

panels, Besides this, there are various familiar weeds 
which grow in our lanes and woods that make exquisite 

( subjects for the kind of painting we are at present con- 

CATARRH AND Brononitis Curep.—A clergyman, after | 
years of suffering from that loathsome disease, catarrh, ° 

and vainly trying every known remedy, at last found a 
prescription which completely cured and saved him from 
a self-addressed stamped envelope to Dr. J. Flynn & Co., 
117 East Fifteenth Street, New York, will receive the 
recipe free of charge. 

AN AMERICAN Perrume for the Royal family. 
ing over our European fashion-exchanges, we note the 
following, from the “ Ladies’ Pictorial”: “The Prince of 

Any sufferer from this dreadful disease, sending { 

In look- } 

Wales is well known as a connoisseur in perfumes, and } 

has taken a great liking to Edenia, The jeunesse d’orée— 
or, shall we say, the young England party ?-—will, no doubt, 
follow his example, and Kdenia will be all the rage, this 

New Snor-Dressinas come and go: Button’s Raven 
Gloss, however, remains the standard, because it makes 
shoes look new, not varnished, 

ag Everything relating to this department should be 

addressed “Puzzle Editor,” Prrerson’s Magazine, P.-O. 
Box ‘328, Marblehead, Mass, 


No. 280. 





sidering. Thistles, for instance, are admirably adapted for 
decorative treatment, and especially the silver-gray thistles 
which grow near the sea and on the edges of cliffs. The 
common puff-ball, or dandelion-seed, would be another 
pretty subject for door-panels; it would be especially 
pretty on a pale sea-green or dull-silver ground, Wall- 
flowers look admirable on a dull-gold background, as do 
orange tiger-lilies, dahlias, Japanese chrysanthemums, and 
other somewhat stiff-looking flowers. 

Some people paint single figures on their door-panels, 
We have seen the figure of a girl, in medieval attire, indi- 
cated with considerable spirit, on a gold background, with 
a most happy result. Others, sometimes, have a landscape, 
put in with a light and suggestive touch, the coloring being 
rubbed on thinly, and the outlines not too hard, But land. 
scape ought not to be attempted by anyone who has not had 
considerable experience in that branch of art; for deco- 
ration of such an ambitious kind challenges criticism, and 

‘ draws attention in a way that a few flowers or weeds would 
* not do, 

, produce an effective door, 

Some knowledge of design is indispensable, in order to 
For instance, it would be very 

‘ bad taste to have the heaviest part of the design at the top 


of the panel; the design ought to run upward, not down. 
A door with a Japanese “ motif” often looks extremely well, 
the design running through each panel, and reappearing 
in the underneath ones, For instance, we have before us, 
as we write, a black painted door, in which there are four 
panels, the upper ones being long and the lower short. 
These panels are covered entirely with gold paint—not too 
bright—and on this is a spirited design of conventional 
wall-flowers, treated in the Japanese manner. The sprays 
or branches appear to spring from the sides of the lower 
panels, and reappear in the long upper panels with the 
happiest effect. In the same room, some large folding- 
deors are treated in asimilar manner; only, in this case, 
yellow and fire-colored nasturtiums with their leaves are 
scattered on a dull-gold ground. 


The skirt has a narrow plaiting of the material; it has five 
tucks. The overdress is a polonaise, edged on the front 
with Hamburg embroidery, and untrimmed at the back; 
it is slightly gathered at the waist, back and front, the 
gathering forming a plastron. Sleeves rather full, on a 
band at the elbow. Black velvet band at the neck and in 
front of the waist, and bows of the same at the right side. 
Straw hat, trimmed with black velvet ribbon and field- 

Fig. 11.—WALKING-Dress, OF Pink ALpatross. The 
underskirt has four plaited flounces, edged with écru lace. 
The overskirt is short in front, looped far back, and falls 
quite long behind, The bodice is plain at the back, full in 

RA nnn > 

front to a yoke on the sheulders, and has a waistband 
fastened with a mother-of-pearl buckle. Straw hat, trim- 
med with pink roses, 

Fig. u1.—VisiTiInG OR GARDEN-PaRTy Dress, OF BLACK 
GRENADINE Net. The bottom of the skirt is edged with a 
plaiting of poppy-red satin. Above this, is a plaiting of 
black satin; then a deep flounce of the grenadine, trimmed 
with a black lace. The long overdress is also edged with 
lace, as well as the deep basque, which has a black velvet 
belt—reaching from under the arms only, and fastened by 
a large steel buckle. The vest is of black lace, over red 
satin. Bonnet of soft white crdpe, trimmed with a large 
yellow rose. 

Fie. 1v.—Visit1nG-Dress, oF PRIMROBE-COLORED CANVAS. 
It is edged with a narrow knife-plaiting, and there is a 
simulated skirt of plaited lace. The overdress opens on the 
left side, over the plaited lace dress, is edged with watered 
silk, falls in full straight plaits at the back, and is laid in 
plaits on the left side, which are somewhat drawn up on 
the right side, to show the plaited lace. The close-fitting 
bodice has revers, of the canvas of the dress, and a watered 
silk waistcoat. Bonnet of yellow crape, trimmed with 
white flowers, 

Fig. v.—VisitinG-Dress, oF Dark-Gray Stripep GRENA- 
pink. The skirt falls straight at the back, but has also a 
very small drapery ; it is plaited at the side, but opens wide 
over a rich brocade of soft dull colors, The panel is edged 
with gray satin ribbon, and is put on in two deep loops, 
with a trimming of the ribbon just below the waist. The 
skirt opens only a short way up, on the right side, to show 
more of the brocade, which is also slightly seen at the 
bottom of the front. The bodice is postillion at the back, 
and is made with three points in front, and opens over 
a vest of the brocade. Hat of dark-gray straw, trimmed 
with high loops of changeable silk, of the colors of the 

Fria, vi.—WALkina-Dress, OF DARK-BLUE ELrxont. The 
bottom is edged with a narrow knife-plaiting. The skirt 
opens in front, and is attached to the bodice in plaits, 
which are draped at the back, The front of the skirt is 
filled in with plaitings of blue figured canvas, The bodice 
opens over a plaited vest of the figured canvas, and has 
blue velvet revers, collar, and cuffs; it is made with a 
postillion-basque at the back, and has two points in front. 
Hat of coarse straw, trimmed with blue surah silk. 

Fig. vi1.—GarpeN-Party Dress, oF Brown Founanrp, 
CovereD Wirth Pink Roses, The bottom of the skirt is 
edged with plain brown foulard. The skirt itself is made 
of plain brown foulard, flounced with broad lace. The 
overdress of the figured foulard is edged with a ruffle of 
lace, narrower than those on the underskirt, is long and 
pointed in front, gathered high up on the hips, and falls in 
loose drapery at the back. The sleeves and front of the 
pointed waist are edged with a narrow lace ruffle. Collar 
of lace. Hat of brown straw, trimmed with a plaid silk in 
gay colors. 

Fig. virt.—Watktno-Dress, oF Inon-Gray SERGE AND 
Gray Bovcifé Corn. The skirt is of the gray serge, box- 
plaited with panels of bouclé cloth. The full round tunic 
is of the serge, with a puff at the back. The jacket is of 
the bouclé cloth, with a full postillion-skirt at the back, 
and opens over corduroy waistcoat of a lighter shade of 
gray; and the habit-skirt is of white rep or piqué. Hat of 
gray straw, with stiff trimmings of gray corded silk. 

Fic. 1x.—Vistting-Dress, oF BLACK SpoTTEn GRENADINE. 
The bottom of the skirt has a plaiting of black silk. 
Above this, at the back, is a plaiting of black French lace. 
The lower skirt has a square apron-front, edged all around 
by a flounce of lace, which disappears under the front of 
the polonaise. The polonaise is short, and round in front; 
it is drawn high at the sides, and, where it joins the back, 
8 fan-shaped plaiting of lace is placed on each side. The 

ee A a ee 




bodice of the polonaise has a deep collar, square back and 
front, made of piece-lace, and a narrow plaited vest of 
black silk, inserted in a long V-shape, and edged on each 
side with silk buttons. Lace cuffs. Hat of black straw, 
trimmed with black velvet and yellow daisies. 

Lace, for a young lady. The skirt is edged with two 
plaited ruffles, Over the muslin—or white silk, if pr- 
ferred—is a dress made of one of the many kinds of cheap 
and most beautiful imitation laces, which now come for 
dress-purposes. It ought not to be made too full, as the 
pattern would not show well, neither will it fall so well. 
It is caught up at one side by a large cluster of pink moss- 
rose buds and blue forget-me-nots. The low round bodice 
is confined at the waist by a band of white satin, and a 
broad sash of white satin ribbon falls at the back, The 
bodice is edged with a ruching of lace, and there are 
narrow white satin. bows on the shoulders, 

Fic, x1.—Garpen-Party Hat. This extremely pretty 
hat is made on a white foundation, and is composed of 
several rows of white plaited thin muslin, and decorated in 
front with a large bunch of purple violets, 

Fig. xu1.—Jersey, edged with gold braid, and having a 
plaited vest of dark-red silk. 

Fig. xui.—Visitina-Dress, OF Wite Nun’s-VEILine. 
There is a narrow plaiting at the bottom. The drapery of 
the front of the skirt is full and long, and is fastened under 
the plain full fall at the back, The mantle is long in front, 
very short at the back, which helps to form the sleeves; is 
of black figured and jetted grenadine, lined with red silk. 
Bonnet of black lace, with a trimming in front, of dark-red 

Fic. x1v.—Bopice or Ripinc-Hawit, The postillion is 
longer than has been recently worn, A buckram inter- 
lining ought always to be used, to insure a fit without 

Fig. xV.—Zovave Jacket, or Boucr£ Crorn, edged with 

GENERAL BemMARKS,.—It will be seen, by the engravings 
in front of the magazine, how great is the variety in 
fashion; for all the patterns are worn, not only for the 
purposes for which we have designated them, but some of 
the walking-dresses and visiting-dresses are quite as much 
used for the house, when train-dresses are not desired, 

The excessive draping and looping at the back of the 
skirt are less and less seen, but the tournure continues 
to be as large as ever, only the skirt now usually falls in 
full straight plaits from the waist to the foot. For rather 
short or stout persons, this is the most becoming style. 
Still, the looped skirts are by no means out of fashion, and 
tall slender persons cling to them, as they are so much 
more adapted to them than the straight folds. 

Bodices of a different color and material from the dress 
are much worn, especially by young people; and this is a 
most sensible and economical fashion, as a worn-out bodice 
can be replaced by some inexpensive stuff, and an old skirt 
thus utilized. ‘ 

Striped materials form part of most dresses: some- 
times for the petticoat, with a plain bodice and drapery, 
sometimes as the bodice and drapery, with a plain petticoat, 
or as panels or vests, etc., etc. 

Collars are worn higher than ever, and are, as a rule, 
very uncomfortable, in consequence; though, so strong is 
habit, that a dress with a low collar is at once proclaimed 

Black lace is very much used for dressy costumes: 
sometimes it is piece-lace, of which the dress is made, and 
trimmed with the narrower trimming-lace, or it may be an 
old black surah silk or satin, flounced or draped with 
lace. These dresses are suitable for almost all occasions 
except actual street-wear. 

Grenadine, striped ganzes, canvas, mohair, all soft thin 

wee eee wd POLL LAL ROD 


res ween 

woolen goods, sateen, cambric, uti pan are all s 
equally fashionable. 

Gauze ribbons are popular for the trimming of dresses, } 
as well as of bonnets, 

wee eer Sw 


A very elegant walking or visiting dress is composed of 
heavy black faille, trimmed with jet, and having a vest 


} formed of folds of pale pink or blue or lilac surah o2 
3 crépe-de-Chine, the corsage just meeting at the waist, over 
¢ the vest. 

With this toilette, is worn a capote in black lace 

> and jet, ornamented in front with two jet wings, between 
3 which is placed a high standing loop of fuille ribbon, 

Rve Des Petits CHAMPS. 

I do not suppose there ever was a season when bonnets 3 
and hats were so entirely eclectic as they are at the present ? 
moment. Only a certain elevation of trimming is pre- 
scribed. Otherwise, a fashionable lady may wear a high ? 
Tyrolean hat, er a close capote, or a Russian toque; or she } 
may indulge in coarse Dunstable braids, or fine English 
straw, or folds of tulle, or network of beads. She may 
trim her hat with a pair of imitation wings, formed of jet, } 
or with ostrich-tips. She may have the crown veiled with 3 
tulle, or covered with silk laid in folds, or surrounded with >} 
wide faille ribbon, either in black or colors, studded with $ 
square jets. Or she may have a gauze scarf wreathed grace- 3 
fully around it, or else entwined in an indescribable and 3 
elaborate manner, with ostrich-tips peeping out amongst 3 
its convolutions, She may wear flowers on her hat or ? 
bonnet, or jet chains, or clusters of fruit or nuts. And, only } 
occasionally now, I am pleased to say, one sees a hat orna- } 
mented with a bird, A very curious structure, and rather 
a picturesque one, was a high wood-colored straw, of the ? 
Tyrolean shape, with an owl’s-head, encircled with a 
wreath of ivy, set at one side of the high crown. The ? 
narrow brim was bordered with a garland of ivy, and was 
lined with wood-colored velvet. Large wide-brimmed hats, 
in fine black English straw, are trimmed with black faille 
ribbon and ostrich-tips, and have the brim lined with black 
velvet. Small Rhine-stone buckles confine the ribbon, and 
relieve the sombre aspect of the hat. These hats are also 
trimmed with scarfs of cream gauze, or with bands of } 
wide faille ribbon of a pale-yellow hue; but the plumes are 
invariably black, to match the straw. Large rustic-bonnets, 
of Dunstable braids or coarse gimps, are prepared for > 
watering-place wear, and are trimmed with a large bouquet 
of varied flowers, set in front of the low crown. They 
have no strings. Sweet-peas and roses form a pretty 
combination for adorning such a bonnet. 

The Spanish jacket is becoming very popular, and is 
a good deal worn by elderly ladies, even for demi-toilette. 
It is composed ef the same material as the dress, and is 
made to fit closely at the back, opening in front over a vest 
of another material, or of the same stuff in a darker shade. 
Side-panels on the skirt repeat the material or the hue 
of the vest. Thus, I have seen a toilette, in wood-colored 
sutin, made in that style, with the vest and side-panels in 
chestnut-brown velvet. Smali-pattern black and white 
silks make up very stylishly for a young and slender 
wearer in the following fashion: The skirt is covered with 
tour flounces of graduated width, the narrowest and top- 
most one starting from the waist. Each flounce is bordered 
with a bias band of black taffeta, two inches in width. 
The corsage is in black taffeta, cut slightly pointed back 
and front, and opening over a full shirt-front of white > 
crape-lisse. Around the waist is passed a belt of black $ 
taffeta, to which a wide sash of the same material is 
attached at the back. 

Stripes, in all sorts of materials, are immensely in vogue 
A dress may have a striped underskirt, and an overdress 
and corsage of plain material, or the styles may be reversed 
A very pretty toilette for an elderly lady may be i 3 


ww AO A IO TE we 

wee eer 

2 are embroidered with beads of their own color, 

; stocking matching the ball-dress precisely. 

) with blue forget-me-nots, 

’ matching the vest in color precisely. This is perhaps the 
? most tasteful of all the walking-costumes of the season. 

Dresses in black gauze are sometimes made with a 
number of flounces, alternating with black lace ones, 
Others have one side of the skirt covered with a multi- 

¢ plicity of narrow ruffles, with long flat draperies drawn 

back across the skirt, both back and front, and falling in 
set folds at the opposite side. In fact, all sorts of pretty 

: and fantastic forms for skirts are permissible during the 

present season. 
Walking-shoes are made very plain, and are not quite 
so pointed as they were a few months ago. A very stylish 

} shoe is entirely composed of patent-leather, with a single 

wide strap passing across the instep and buttoning at one 
side. House-shoes are more elaborate than ever. They 
are cut very low in front, and are embroidered with colored 
beads intermixed with gold ones, This embroidery looks 
particularly well on a shoe of bronze kid. Satin slippers 
and are 
worn with very fine plain silk stockings, the shoe and 
Fashion has 
taken greatly to the pretty bags in colored plush for opera- 
glasses, which were first invented in America. They are 
shown adorned with the gold or silver monogram of the 
owner of the opera-glass, and some of them are edged 
around the top with a narrow ruffle of fine old point-lace. 
A charming novelty for the drawing-room table is a book- 
cover, composed of antique brocade, and ancient em- 
broidery and gold passementerie intermingled with gay+ 
colored plush, so as to have the effect of the binding of 
an ancient manuscript or missal. They are lined with 
satin, and are usually of the size to contain an ordinary 
French novel. They are most artistic in color and in 
material, and are really very beautiful. 
Lucy IL. Hooper. 


Fic. 1.—Boy’s Suit, oF Gray TWEED. The knickerbockers 
have a band below the knee, fastened with a small steel 
buckle. Above this, are two buttons. The blouse is deuble- 
breasted, fastening diagonally from the right side to the 
waist, with large buttons; and it is confined about the 
waist with a band of very broad military or Russian braid, 
fastened with a broad steel buckle, 

Fie. 1.—Griew’s Dress, oF PaLte-Bivrt Zepuyr. The 
skirt is in large plaits. The bodice is full, back and frout, 
gathered at the waist, and is confined by a sash of the 
material, edged with écru-colored cumbric embroidery. 
The collar is also edged with the same embroidery, Hat 

) of yellow straw, trimmed with white ribbon and feathers, 

Fic. u1.—Q1r1’s Dress, oF CITRON-GREEN SATEEN, figured 
The skirt is tucked and edged 

with a box-plaited ruffle. The overdress is a polonaise, 

‘ gathered at the top to form a yoke, and the slight fullness 
. } that is left is gathered at the waist, back and front. 


3 skirt is looped high on sides, Sleeves three-quarters length, 
. ? with a ruffle at the edge. A cluster of ribbon bows on 

of a corsuge and overskirt in black taffeta, opening over } 
an underskirt and vest in black satin and white faille 
stripes. The overdress and corsage may be trimmed with } 
black lace. 

{ turned-up brim is faced with black velvet. 

the shoulder, Green straw hat, with blue feathers. 

Fig, 1v.—Hat, or Back Straw, for a young lady. The 
It is trimmed, 
in front, with loops-and-ends of black satin ribbon aud 
stiff dark-red feathers.